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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388609">Today Your Love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conduitstreetcat/pseuds/Conduitstreetcat'>Conduitstreetcat</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenFaerie/pseuds/TheGreenFaerie'>TheGreenFaerie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Beat on the Brat [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Assassination, BDSM, Blood, I mean they haven't seen each other for twelve years, Knife Play, Lots of Sex, M/M, Reunion, Sequel, assault course, but what about the love?, mormor, obviously, sniping</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:06:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>44,738</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388609</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conduitstreetcat/pseuds/Conduitstreetcat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenFaerie/pseuds/TheGreenFaerie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve years after two teenagers met in a Dublin summer, ex-soldier Sebastian Moran meets crime lord Jim Moriarty.<br/>The sexual spark hasn't diminished in the slightest. The passionate love was, of course, just a teenage folly.</p><p>Sequel to Tomorrow the World: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096162/chapters/60796948</p><p>A growing playlist can be found here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4uhXivTav6wjagQeWoAexO?si=n5x73bqnTUmSiaoWf99Yng</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Beat on the Brat [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158863</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>FaerieCat Mormor</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Still Crazy After All These Years</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>I feel weird when I get home that night.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have some whiskey, but that just reminds me. I switch to wine.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Am I treading on thin ice here?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Of course not - I'm a grown man. I'm not likely to fall back into childhood silliness just because I found back a childhood - contact.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The next day, my doctor tells me that you're in perfect health, though you should stop drinking and smoking, as should everyone, but you're not going to, and it’s not of immediate concern. You have a knee injury that will sometimes ache in cold damp weather, but it shouldn't be a problem as long as you keep the knee muscles strong and don't injure it again, until you get much older, which is not too likely with your lifestyle. His opinion is that you're likely to grow to a hundred if you quit the fags and rethink your career - which he thinks from even the short time he's spent with you is rather unlikely.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I get in touch with Yannick, tell him to train up a new recruit, and not to waste him.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In the days that follow our meeting, I’m kept very busy with training. Unsurprisingly, I get the hang of it quick and am taken out on several jobs. I impress my 'supervisor' enough that I'm given solo work to do.</p><p>And in between jobs I’ve taken to pacing in my flat like a caged -</p><p>...</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. There really is no escape from thinking about you, is there?</p><p>I sigh.</p><p>Being restless and itching for stimulation is not exactly new for me...</p><p>But according to your decree, if I want even a <em>chance</em> at a 'second hot fuck', I’m not to touch anyone else.</p><p>Not that I would even want to, now that you’re back in the picture...</p><p> </p><p>But <em>are</em> you? I know you still have some kind of residual affection for me, and deeper down, I've sensed an ore of actual feelings...</p><p>but I have no fucking idea how I’m going to reach it when I haven't even <em>seen</em> you.</p><p>At this point, the power is entirely yours and you’ll be the one to decide when we meet again.</p><p>Although based on what you know about my ‘illiterate wantons’, you can find out about <em>me</em> whenever the fuck you want.</p><p> </p><p>I sigh, slip under the covers and turn off the light. Sleep when it finally comes is restless... in the morning there are snippets of a dream - a boy sets out to sea on a sailboat... heading into a storm that he can’t yet see. And I'm left on the shore, trying to call his name, and realizing I have no voice.</p><p> </p><p>I sit up in bed, resting my head in my hands. Whatever I thought, the past clearly isn’t done with me yet.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I get back to work and try not to look into new recruit Moran's progress every day.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Or at least not more than once a day.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Twice at the most if it's particularly interesting.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fuck's sake.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I could just call you and summon you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I don't want to seem too keen. Don't want to give you any - *ideas*.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You need to know who's pulling the strings. Just like everyone.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>After ten days, I need to go to Hong Kong, so I can't summon you anyway - well I *could*, but that would *definitely* give the wrong idea.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The nights in the hotel are long and exquisitely boring. I call Yannick and tell him to take you to an assault course and have you run it five times, while he and four others film you from different vantage points.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That makes it much less boring.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When I’m taken to the assault course, I stare at Yannick in disbelief.</p><p>“I’m guessing my background in the army and <em>SAS</em> made it into my file... Does someone think I’ve <em>forgotten?”</em></p><p>He shrugs, looking surly. “Not my job to-“</p><p>“Yeah, yeah - don’t ask questions,” I growl, and throw off my jacket.</p><p>I pour all my aggression into completing the course.</p><p>The fucking <em>videocameras</em> do not escape my attention. I make sure to give a two-fingered salute as I finish.</p><p> </p><p>The most infuriating part of all this is that I have no way to get in touch with you. To tell you what an arrogant fucker you are.</p><p>I imagine a grainy photo hitting your desk, of me in a ‘Moriarty is an arrogant fucker’ t-shirt. I laugh my arse off as we leave the assault course. Yannick doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell.</p><p> </p><p>After a couple of weeks of pacing in my flat, I start to go out more - to the gym, out for runs; I even start going to bars again. Not to hook up... although the stream of invitations is always satisfying.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I didn't miss the offensive gesture, Sebastian... you have some anger issues, don't you? Oh well...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When I'm back from Hong Kong, I tell Yannick to take you back to the assault course, have you run it a few times, then send you into the cabin that's behind it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have the cabin decorated: draped velvet along the walls, a red chaise longue, a gramophone playing 1930s Ella Fitzgerald, a mahogany side table holding an opened bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two glasses, as well as a bottle of water - you may be thirsty - and me lounging on the chaise, wearing not a stitch.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>On either side of the chaise is a man with an assault rifle.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They're dummies, but they're so fully covered in military gear you only notice if you take your time looking at them - which I don't think you will.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I stare at Yannick, my mouth a hard line.</p><p>“Fucking <em>serious?”</em> I mutter.</p><p>He doesn’t even bother looking up from his phone, just grunts at me to get started.</p><p>Fucker has me run it <em>three times...</em> no videocameras this time, so I can only imagine this is some kind of punishment or mind game. <em>Both</em>, I decide as I finish, covered in dirt and sweat.</p><p> </p><p>Then comes the strange part - finding a cabin on the property. Is there a <em>job</em> to do now? Yannick is tight-lipped as usual, and just tells me the clock is ticking.</p><p> </p><p>I curse and take off in the direction of the mysterious cabin.</p><p>Maybe I overestimated my patience for dealing with adult Jim, I think as I near the structure. Because this is getting unbelievably irritating- and upsetting - and -</p><p>I slow down as I approach the cabin. The curtains keep me from seeing anything. Is that music inside, or - talking?</p><p>God... I got so carried away, I didn’t even do a security check. Not that I think Yannick would send me into a -</p><p>Jesus. Is this another test?</p><p>Or is this an actual –</p><p>I draw my gun and throw open the door, plastering myself against the side of the wall - two men. Military gear. Rifles. <em>Jim</em>.</p><p>Like quicksilver I shoot, deadly precise - <em>pop</em> one head, then the other... that sweet spot is such an easy score for a sniper at this range.</p><p> </p><p>Crouching low I move through the room to get you, gun trained on the men. Why haven’t they fallen? And where are the entrance wounds??</p><p> </p><p>I turn towards you... smiling fiercely in your naked glory.</p><p>Slowly I lower my gun...</p><p>“What. The fuck...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Oh, *beautiful*," I crow, eyes gleaming.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You look *stunning*. Crouched, alert, mud-covered, shiny-eyed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This is you, I realize. This is you at your apex - in a life-and-death situation, after physical exertion, adrenaline screaming through your veins - this is what you live for.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Can do, darling...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Don't worry about Willy and Billy here - they're from Woolworths. They're just to give the place a bit more... ambience. I wasn't sure what your tastes were in interior decorating, so I improvised.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Would you mind closing the door? It's getting a bit chilly."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I’m so sorry...” I kick the door shut and look at you, glowering.</p><p>“Is this your idea of foreplay?” I demand. “Zero contact for weeks and then-“ I wave the gun at the fucking mannequins. My eyes then flicker over you as you stare at me in challenge. “Then-“</p><p>Moran, you idiot - don’t let little Seb take over now –</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Yes...?" I purr, my voice dripping honey, leaning back on the arm of the chaise.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I thought you might like a drink, after your hard work..." I nod at the champagne.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fuck. Stop looking at him.</p><p><em>Stop looking at him</em>.</p><p>“Oh are we celebrating something?” I step to the table, put my gun down emphatically. I ignore the glass, swipe up the bottle and pour some of the bubbling liquid down my throat.</p><p>“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. May I pour you some?” I ask in my posh voice, gesturing towards the glass. You’re not the only one who’s a prick, Jim...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I know you're trying to be a cocky fucker, but do you have any idea how hot it looks to see you fellating a champagne bottle, liquid leaking out of your mouth?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Please do," I say, nodding to the glass. You pour me a measure, which foams, spilling over onto the table, then take another swig from the bottle.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I pick up the glass, smile, lick up a droplet that's making its way down the side, then take a small sip, lick both my lips. Your eyes don't leave my face for a second.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fuck fuck fuck... I wanted to prove something here...</p><p>Something about how you can’t treat me, and -</p><p>My gaze sweeps down your body slowly.</p><p>Something...</p><p> </p><p>And all I’ve proven is -</p><p> </p><p>My eyes move back up your body even more slowly...</p><p>God I didn’t get to fully appreciate you in the warehouse...</p><p>Wait, what did I prove?</p><p> </p><p>“You look - so fucking good...” I say in a low growl.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Oh, really?" I smile, looking coy. "I wasn't sure what to wear..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I take another sip, smile invitingly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Don't you want to sit down?" I nod at the chaise, on which I'm still stretched out like an odalisque.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I let out a breath slowly.</p><p><em>Of course</em> I’m going to sit down...</p><p>You didn’t give me much of a choice, did you?</p><p> </p><p>I move towards you and sink down into the chaise, my fingers tightening on the upholstery. Not touching you. Just - gazing at you and trying to continue breathing.</p><p>“Alright,” I say in a low voice. “Here I am...”</p><p>Words sound so strange now... did that make sense? I realize how warm and flushed I am, sitting so close to you...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Such* restraint.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I lift my top leg, move my foot onto your thigh, slide it back towards your pelvis.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Anything else you'd like?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I shiver at the sudden sensation.</p><p>“There’s plenty more I’d like,” I murmur. My hand lifts as if of its own accord and moves along your calf.</p><p>I’m nearly dizzy at the feeling of <em>your skin</em>. This is so surreal... the last time I touched you like this -</p><p>Nope. We’re not thinking of that.</p><p>“Mmm. So much more,” I breathe, my hand skimming up to your thigh.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Yes* - there we are... touching -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>your hands send a shiver through me, which I can't hide, because I'm naked - *work on that poker body, Moriarty*.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I move back, lying against the arm rest, open, inviting –</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh god...</p><p>I feel my body moving in response immediately.</p><p>Stretching out next you, pressing against you...</p><p>Then I realize I’m still wearing my boots and very dirty clothes.</p><p>“Sorry... looks like you’re going to get a little dirty...” I say in a husky voice, my hand positioning itself under your jaw and pulling you into a heated kiss.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I can't help a slight shiver again as your body touches me, the muddy clothes chilly against my naked skin - but there's a very warm Tiger underneath, and that kiss is hot as hell.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I start pulling on your shirt, opening it up to get to the warm skin underneath, as you pull me against you. I can feel you straining inside your combat trousers - give me that, it's mine...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I struggle to unlace my boots while I’m kissing you, making you laugh. Finally I give up, focussing on the laces just long enough to pull them off and throw them onto the floor with a growl. After that it doesn’t take long at all until my body is sliding naked against yours.</p><p>Oh god...</p><p>“Fuck - I <em>want</em> you,” I murmur against your lips, growing almost woozy with mounting desire.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Well you're in luck..." I growl, grasping for your cock, making you gasp, as I kiss you. Your hands are trembling as you pull me closer, a deep soft moan emerges from your mouth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I reach under the chaise for the lube, squirt some in my hand, rub it onto you.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I stifle a surprised response as you lube up my cock.</p><p>I never did this when -</p><p>When we -</p><p>God, it’s so fucking hard not to think about it.</p><p>But I really need to <em>not</em> if I want to keep my sanity...</p><p> </p><p>Instead I take the little tube from you, and rub it into you.</p><p>Testing, I slide in a finger.</p><p>Ohhh, so warm... so deliciously tight.</p><p>You don’t really do this, do you...</p><p>Luckily, I know <em>very</em> well how to coax a man to relax enough to give in to intoxicating pleasure...</p><p>I move my finger inside you enticingly and slip my tongue into your mouth.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I don’t like this - I don’t do it, as a rule, only if needed to get where I want to be. And as I wanted to throw you off balance, it seemed the best idea.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>However, I didn’t quite take my own libido into account. I’m more turned on than I had planned to be.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And your fingers are skilled...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Carefully, I let myself relax under your ministrations, let myself sink into your kiss.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Haven’t I wondered what it would be like being taken by a strong soldier?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After another finger is added... after your prostate is nudged into providing you with trembling thrills of pleasure... after you’ve been stretched and stimulated and stretched some more...</p><p>I feel a surge of triumph as you grasp me, shivering and moaning...</p><p>Then and only then do I withdraw my fingers... position myself over you... and sink into you with a feeling like - nothing I’ve ever known.</p><p>This is a place I’ve wanted to be for a very, <em>very</em> long time... like a mythic place I thought I had only dreamed about.</p><p>And I know you’re only swept up in it physically and you’re still closed off from me emotionally... but you are here with me, aren’t you Jim Moriarty... for the moment at least.</p><p>Moving as one... growling and biting each other like animals... shuddering at the utterly blinding pleasure of it all.</p><p>I stroke your cock firmly as I move inside you harder and faster.</p><p>“Oh - fuck – yes -“ I moan, burying my face in your neck.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You drive me so crazy that I find myself *longing* for you inside me - that's *never* happened. After I left my life on the street I told myself never again... but then it was useful to play the twinky bottom occasionally to move the game along, and found I could just shut the sensation off - register it as something that was happening to my body, but not really involving me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I am a mind, made of polished steel and bulletproof glass, being carried around by this body. The body needs to be kept in good condition in order to serve the mind, but it will do as it's told.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Only, it seems the body is getting mighty uppity lately. It wants satisfaction - and at the hands of the Tiger, no less.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where earlier physical lust was something that needed occasional quenching, just one of those annoying maintenance jobs the body demands - eat, drink, evacuate, exercise, sleep, wash, fuck - something to take care of, which may be pleasurable in the moment, and then to forget about, these past weeks there have been few days when it *didn't* sneak in a cheeky suggestion of inviting the Tiger over for some quality time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I must watch this - can't let my body get too demanding. There's nothing wrong with indulging in some creature comforts, I've found, but it's risky when it involves other people. You can never, ever, rely on other people.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Meanwhile, my body is enjoying itself remarkably well, given that this is far from my favourite way to indulge. There's some stretching, some breathing through it, but then it feels - really really good...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your mouth is in my neck, moaning, panting; sounds that drive me wild - *how do sounds drive me wild?! How does anything drive me wild??* - and - biting?! Careful Tiger...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But for now, I'll let you, because it's so fucking hot to feel myself underneath you, being filled up with sounds and sensations and Sebastian...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I kiss you feverishly, not knowing if this will be the only other time we're together, or if more will follow. But even if they do, will you be as controlling as these two times?</p><p>Jesus, get <em>out of your head</em>, Moran... you're<em> inside Jim... fucking Jim</em>.. about to <em>come inside</em> -</p><p>oh - god -</p><p>My mind disintegrates-</p><p>fuckfuckfuckJimJimJim-</p><p>my body spasms violently against you -</p><p>I come in intense spurts of pleasure, groaning loudly -</p><p>I called your name again, didn't I...</p><p> </p><p>A moment later, I look down at you. Dishevelled, gasping for breath... and still in need of an orgasm.</p><p> </p><p>I pull out, making you shiver. Then I proceed to kiss and lick my way down your body. Well as you haven't had the pleasure of a blow job from Sebastian Moran for over a decade... and I've honed my technique rather significantly since then... you're in for something special, Jim Moriarty...</p><p> </p><p>With a growl, I take your cock into my mouth and get to work making you moan.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My *big, strong, hot* soldier - fuck, my thing for masculine men combined with your innate hotness are driving me quite far beyond where I'd normally go...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm still in control - of course I am. I always am. But my gasps and moans are not at all fakes - or all that much controlled, to be honest -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Neither are you; you're pounding away, your face contorting - god, is there anything more beautiful? - and you look *so much* like how you used to look, that times start melting together, confusing, images blending - *no* - no we don't confuse things, this is not then, this is *now*, and I am having sex with my hot recruit, showing him what belonging to Moriarty can be like...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Your climax rages through you, and it's a wondrous sight to behold, involving every muscle of your body tensing, your eyes screwing shut, your mouth gasping for air as you groan out my name - that's it - like you've never done otherwise –</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and have you done that, Seb? Fucked others and groaned my name at the climax, because I was the *best* you ever had?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your orgasm washes over me; it feels so hot, makes me *want* even more, want to be part of that perfect storm, as I feel you coming inside me; no condoms required any more - funny that our first bareback fuck should be you inside me...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And then you are gone, and it feels so *empty*, so barren, all of a sudden - no, not yet - please - don't leave -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*What the fuck Moriarty -*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- but you're back, your warm lips on me, your tongue, and you're making your way down, oh yes - give me your mouth, Sebastian -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and a growl and a grunt later, there is that mouth, and it's going to work, and for the first time. In twelve years. All. Thoughts. Cease.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>My hands grasp your hips, and your body <em>quivers</em> under my touch, oh fuck fuck fuck I’ve missed this...</p><p>your ragged breathing, your little escaped moans...</p><p>Like you’re holding back, not allowed to let go...</p><p>But based on our sexual chemistry, I suspect that won’t be the case for long...</p><p>we’re just <em>too good</em>.</p><p>Fuck, the <em>taste</em> of you... I never thought I’d taste you again.</p><p>I hum with pleasure, making your body jerk.</p><p>Mmm. Like that?</p><p>I continue until your entire body is shaking, and when you come, oh god... so beautiful...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I didn't know I could be like this -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>my mind so silent, so quiet; so entirely focussed on my body, and *only* on my body, one very *specific* part of my body -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- and here I am again, *analysing* what's going on -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>but -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>fuck - fuck Sebastian - oh *fuck* what do they teach in the SAS these days -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- no don't think of you sucking the cock of every bloody soldier in the Regiment -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- just concentrate on what's happening, because what's happening blows – heh - *anything* else that has ever happened completely out of the ballpark -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hear myself moan, and I don't *moan*, not *inadvertently* anyway - but oh fuck -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- keep yourself under control Moriarty -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>but then you *hum* and the vibration sends me *mad* -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- oh -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- oh fuck -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- oh god no stop I can't -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- human beings weren't built to withstand this -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- I'm dying - surely –</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Smiling, I keep sucking you until you demand that I stop in the most adorable breathy voice.</p><p>Fuck. I need to stop thinking things like that. Even if they’re true.</p><p> </p><p>I flop back on the chaise, exhaling slowly and watching you return to normal breathing. Is everything going to be all business now?</p><p>I get up, grab my smokes, and lie back down again. Then I drink half the bottle of water before realizing I should offer you some.</p><p> </p><p>“No bodies this time... well, real ones anyway,” I say wryly, looking at the mannequins with the holes in their foreheads. “Bloody drama queen.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I'm gone -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>no more Moriarty, I'm just a husk sucked dry by this incubus that I invited into my- cabin myself...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The incubus sits upright, watching me -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- I need to get back to myself, I'm making a spectacle of myself, come on Moriarty - breathe and think, you can do both, I'm sure of it -</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fucking hell.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I guess we should do this more often.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh you got your *mouth* back, haven't you?!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Careful, Moran. The last person to speak to me like that ended up in three different rivers," I reply as you light your cigarette, take a drag, hold it out to me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I grin. It was a risk, but I’ve never been very good at keeping my mouth shut. It took superhuman effort in the army, and they still booted me in the end.</p><p>“My apologies, Sir,” I say, watching you smoke the cigarette. “Temporary insanity. I’m right as rain again.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Ah?" I grin. "And how frequently does this temporary insanity strike, as a rule?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hand the cigarette back, take a sip from my champagne.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I pretend to be deep in thought. “Regular intervals, I’m afraid, Sir...” I say, feigning sadness. “But the insanity is brief - and dare I say, rather entertaining. I do hope to not to end up in multiple rivers, Sir...” I take a drag of my cigarette and blow smoke rings up at the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I snort, pour some champagne in the second glass, hand it to you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"How did you ever last more than a day in the army?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I had to pour my endless fucking angst into something, didn’t I.</p><p>Don’t say that, Moran...</p><p>I drink half the glass of champagne to give me time to consider my answer.</p><p>“Luckily I was able channel it into aggressive physical activity... and I can employ discipline when I need to. It’s more challenging when I have no respect for someone... but possible.”</p><p>I drain the rest. “As for the army, they could tell I was defiant even when my demeanour was perfect. It made them go harder on me... they tried to break me and turn me into a model soldier. But it just made me more determined to do better than anyone else, so they’d have nothing to complain about... not officially, anyway.” I put the glass down, take another drag off my cigarette. “It worked well. Until it didn’t.”</p><p>Why am I talking about this?? I <em>don’t</em> want to talk about this.</p><p>“But now I have this new, exciting career in crime ahead of me... and a new, exciting Boss.”</p><p>I smile innocently, pour more champagne for both of us, and clink your glass.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I grin. "Yannick tells me you've been doing well, but you're a snarky fucker even while doing as you're told, so that sounds about right. Keep it up and you will rise through the ranks swiftly - it's rare enough to get someone who's got skills and half a brain.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>However, don't think that you're getting a free pass. Your new, exciting Boss doesn't mind snarky fuckers, but he does expect them to do as he says. And like I said before, if you tell anyone anything about me, you'll end up in the river - one piece at a time."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hold out my hand, you hand me the last of the cigarette.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Oh, I'm not the kind to kiss and tell, Sir," I purr and get up. You hold the cigarette to your lips as you watch me start to get dressed. Your eyes widen slightly for just a moment and then your face goes neutral again.</p><p>"Besides, what would I say? That we fell madly in love as teenagers while I was on vacation in Dublin? Sounds like a fairy tale, doesn't it?" I say lightly. "Not something from the past of a criminal mastermind and his..." (part-time fucktoy?) "new employee..." I say, hiding my face as I lace up my boots. "Anyway. My lips are sealed."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Some new employees might think this could impress their mates... but wiser ones know better."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm chagrined that you are getting dressed and ready to leave - *I* was going to be the one leaving. But you seem so keen to maintain some of the initiative...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I didn't miss the hesitation at 'employee' though. Well, that's what you are, Moran - employee with some rather unique benefits. We're not teenagers any more...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Well, I'm not here for new mates. And I don't care about impressing people..." I say, finishing up with my laces. "I'm just here to do the job, Sir. Whatever that entails." My eyes flicker over you briefly before I grab my t-shirt and jacket, and start pulling them on.</p><p> </p><p>Am I really doing this? I'm just - leaving?</p><p>When all I want to do is spend as much time as possible in your presence... so I can stare at you all grown up and gorgeous... listen to you talking, playing your games, even threatening me... I want <em>all</em> of it.</p><p>But I already know you're going to sail out of here without a backward glance, and leave me feeling crushed - and then god knows when I'll see you again... I might as well leave now and lick my wounds in private - with a bottle of whisky for company.</p><p>"I know how to follow orders... and I'll do whatever you need better than anybody else you've got," I say. Well, that came out sounding like innuendo, which I fully <em>did not</em> intend. I grab my gun from the table, stifling a wince.</p><p>"I assume your people will be in touch..." I say wryly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You don't *want* to leave, you just feel like you have to, to keep some sort of edge. It's cute, really.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>While you're getting dressed, I clean myself up with some wet wipes, chuck them under the chaise, pour some more champagne into my glass, and lean back luxuriatingly against the arm rest of the chaise, like a contented cat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Hmm," I acknowledge. "Could you send Yannick in on your way out?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I pause partway through sliding my gun into the back of my trousers.</p><p>You're still naked... looking thoroughly debauched, like you just stepped out of a painting of dark faeries and what they get up to in the woods...</p><p>Furiously, I shove the gun under my waistband.</p><p>Our eyes lock, and you give me a look that's at once innocent and smug.</p><p>Oh well played, Jim Moriarty...</p><p>So now you know how I really feel. And I fell for it, like an idiot.</p><p> </p><p>But - you're not <em>really</em> going to talk to Yannick like that, are you?</p><p>You're not going to do anything else with him, <em>are you?</em></p><p>You just came! You were just <em>with me!</em></p><p> </p><p>My eyes narrow, then I force myself to smile.</p><p>"No problem..." I say smoothly. "If that's everything, Sir... I'm out for the night."</p><p>It takes superhuman effort not to slam the door shut, but it still closes loudly behind me.</p><p>I storm back towards the course, muttering to myself. Yannick is where I left him, staring at his phone. He looks at me curiously.</p><p>"Boss wants to see you in the cabin," I say tersely as I walk past him.</p><p>"I guess I'm up," he says, arching an eyebrow.</p><p>"What?" I snap, slowing down. I'm dangerously close to bouncing Yannick's head off the fence, and I force myself to not head back towards him.</p><p>"Goodnight, Moran," he says pointedly and strides in the direction of the cabin.</p><p> </p><p>Oh you little fucker... <em>are you </em>messing with me? I head towards my motorcycle and tear off, spraying the area with dirt and gravel as I go.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That look tells me everything I need to know.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sorry, Tigger... you don't get to *own* me. And best you realize that sooner rather than later.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As soon as you don't quite slam the door shut, I shoot off a text to Yannick, so he knows what to say.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then I slide on some jogging pants and a t-shirt.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When I’m flying along the quiet road in the darkness, I feel my body start to release some of its anger and tension.</p><p>I’m mostly sure you were just fucking with me. <em>Mostly</em>.</p><p>If I was the one to leave first, then you had to do <em>something</em> to put me in my place, right?</p><p>Jesus... when did you become such a - mindfucking little -</p><p>I let out a furious scream as I rev up the engine and shoot like a rocket down the dark road.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe I should just forget about you. I can keep working for you, and - what would it be like to go back to just being a player? It was fun, simple - and when it’s always new and exciting, there’s a minimum of stress, and maximum pleasure.</p><p>Only... it’s not <em>really</em> maximum pleasure, is it...</p><p>And thank you so much for reminding me of that, Jim...</p><p>I was doing <em>just fine</em> without the intoxicating pleasure of your company and your beautiful cock for the last 12 years...</p><p>
  <em>Who are you fucking kidding, Moran?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I grit my teeth and focus on the road. Eventually I slow down as I get closer to the city. And I begin to manoeuvre my way in between cars through the narrow streets until I arrive home for a shower and a quick change - then back on the bike until I arrive at my destination.</p><p>The club is notorious for down and dirty hook-ups.</p><p>I’m only stopping in for a drink. But it’s the air of possibility in there I want to - <em>consider</em>. Is it worth giving up my simple life for... whatever <em>the fuck</em> this is between us? If it’s anything more than 2 fucks and 2 weeks of head games?</p><p> </p><p>At the door, I take a moment to breathe deeply and shake off my fury. Then I saunter in and head for the bar.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Yannick walks in, looking wary - wise. He will have done what I said, without knowing the context, but he must be wondering exactly what he's up for. His eyebrows rise when he sees the baroque surroundings.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Get this cleared up, will you? The chaise is from Valentines Mansion, best get it back before they miss it. And clean out the stain."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I finish my champagne, slide on my trainers, walk to the car which drives me home.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It looks like you're off to - either have a drink and drive most of a gay club to despair, or do something *very* stupid...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With a frown, I keep monitoring your phone, and start up my laptop to access the club's CCTV.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t take long...</p><p>Only this time I’m not saying <em>not tonight</em>.</p><p>A tall man with a shaved head approaches. Shirtless, in leather trousers, and <em>very</em> well-sculpted body. Smoky eyes, an exotic look. Hm.</p><p>He jerks his head towards the door in a brusque, inviting manner.</p><p>Normally I’d be standing up by now.</p><p>Instead I gesture towards the drink being slid across the bar towards me. “Fancy a drink?” I drawl.</p><p>He appears surprised, but sits down next to me. I have to look up at him. He gives his order to the bartender, and turns towards me.</p><p>“Not in the mood for a sure thing?” he asks, perplexed.</p><p>“I’m not sure yet what I’m in the mood for,” I answer and neck my drink.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I send a few texts.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm tempted to just have Baldie thrown out on his arse, but I'm sure you're partly doing this to evoke a response, and I'm not so easy to manipulate, Sebastian Moran.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Instead, two of my guys head for the bar just to have a drink and a dance, and keep a low profile until I say otherwise.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“So what do you like?” the guy asks, taking a large gulp of his pint.</p><p>I think about this as I sign to the bartender for another whisky. “Honestly... sometimes I just appreciate a challenge...” I say, smiling to myself.</p><p>His brow furrows. “Top or bottom?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Ohh, Mr Versatile,” he crows. “They <em>all</em> think they’re tops...”</p><p>“They do,” I agree, thinking of you and shaking my head. “They have <em>no</em> idea what a real top is like...”</p><p>I pay for the drink that appears before me.</p><p>“No, they don’t have a bloody clue,” he says, and pours the rest of the beer down his throat. “So why don’t you let me show you...”</p><p>I smile at him, amused now. “I say I like a challenge, and <em>that’s</em> your response?”</p><p>He gives me an arrogant smile. “It’s a challenge if you think you can top me...”</p><p>I laugh. “Oh, normally that <em>would</em> be a fun demonstration. But you chose the wrong day for me to rise to the challenge, so to speak...”</p><p>He slides his hand along my thigh, and I look down. Consider it for the space of a microsecond. Then I pick his hand up and put it back in his lap.</p><p>He scoffs. “Scared?”</p><p>This inspires a genuine laugh and I throw back my drink, grinning. “I needed that. Thanks, mate...”</p><p>His jaw sets and he orders another drink. Apparently I’m not the only one who appreciates a challenge... but I don’t think he realizes just how greatly the odds are stacked against him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A *hand* on your thigh...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Memories come back, unbidden -</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Anyone but me touches you, that bit of you gets purified by fire... or at least will feel like it is.*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fuck - my cock stirs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*You've just had your fun,* I remind it, but it's not listening, instead imagining whipping your thighs... oh yes... next time we meet - which will *not* be tonight, I remind my cock - there should definitely be whipping involved.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>But you're a *good* Tiger and remove the hand.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>However - if you were a *good* Tiger, you wouldn't have gone into that club. You're definitely playing with fire... but how keen are you to get burnt?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Just so you know...” I say as I put my glass down. “I’m kind of... I’m hung up on someone. So unfortunately I can’t do anything with anyone else...”</p><p>“Are you <em>with</em> this guy?” he demands.</p><p>I wince. “Not - exactly...”</p><p>“You know the best way to get over someone, don’t you mate?” he says, giving me a predatory smile.</p><p>“To get under someone else,” I reply automatically. I breathe in sharply, suddenly remembering - that exact conversation with a mate <em>that summer</em>.</p><p>The guy is looking at me strangely. Christ knows what the expression on my face is now... I probably look gutted. I’m about to get up and leave, but I feel strangely weak and I grip the bar for support.</p><p>“Hey,” he says and strokes my cheek. “Forget him. I’ll make you forget he even <em>existed</em>...”</p><p>I shake my head in a daze, and push off from the bar. The guy shoots up from the bar stool and starts following me, and then suddenly he’s gone - like someone bumped into him hard and he went flying. I don’t care. I just need - to get out - of here -</p><p> </p><p>Outside the club, I lean against the wall. Then I slide down the wall into a crouch, trying to catch my breath. Oh yeah... you’re doing <em>great</em> at moving on, Moran...</p><p>You’ll be over him in no time flat...</p><p> </p><p>I see an abandoned beer bottle, and walk towards the alley. I throw it hard against a brick wall, feeling somewhat soothed by the sound of smashing glass.</p><p> </p><p>I head to my motorcycle. <em>Fuck</em> this. I’ll have to ‘move on’ from you another night.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Well done, Sebastian. You quite possibly saved a man's life there...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Jim.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*You can't kill everyone he hooks up with. If he decides he'd rather have random shags than the King himself, that's up to him.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Since WHEN. Is ANYTHING. Not up to ME.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*You don't want to force him into something he doesn't want, do you? That's a bit much, even for you.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But he *does* want it - he wants it desperately…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*He wants *something*. But whether that's monogamous pining for his boss/ex-boyfriend...*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He needs to learn who's in charge.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In the days that follow, a routine is established. I work with Yannick and with others... and then there’s solo work, which is always my favourite.</p><p>The moment I head out with my sniper rifle my cells begin to <em>thrum</em>... and then when I’m peering through my scope... meditation could never bring me such a crystal clear, centred state.</p><p>Those nights are the ones the ones I’m able to sleep. It’s the rest of them when I’m pacing, or going out for a run, or out for a drink... which on occasion ends in a fight.</p><p>Frequently I have the feeling I’m being watched... if I see a camera, I give it a snarky salute or a rude gesture or I might even blow a kiss. But on the occasions I don’t see a camera at all, there’s still the feeling of someone being there physically - just out of reach.</p><p>And because you’ve wormed your way into my consciousness, you take on an omnipresent, omniscient state... I thought I had ejected god from my psyche a long time ago. But I can’t help feeling you’ve taken over where he failed.</p><p>And I can’t help being <em>utterly obsessed</em> that you’ve returned to my life. Even though I don’t want to be. Even when I don’t see you... my every fucking thought is of you.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Having My Fun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Next time we meet, it's for a proper job.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One of the London Albanian gangs is getting too big for its boots and infringing on my territory. I've identified the kingpin, but he's under understandably vigilant protection all the time. However, I have intel on a meeting he has in the City.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He will be passing from an office block to a car, bodyguards all around him, fifteen feet at the most. No one could touch him - except a good sniper.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And from what I hear, you're the best we have. So - yeah. Let's see your *other* skills, Moran.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>We meet on the roof of a 25-story building. It's a quiet day, but up here it's breezy nonetheless. I wear a cashmere coat with the collar turned up against the wind, when you come up with your rifle.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There you are - looking windswept, mysterious, and gorgeous... I’m glad I’m wearing shades this time. Any distance I can put between you and how I really feel is sorely needed. You’ve made it abundantly clear that you’re not interested in anything other than the occasional fuck, and I have no way of pursuing anything else with you.</p><p> </p><p><em>Of course you do, Moran... Intrigue him...</em> The thought rises in my mind unbidden. Fuck. That’s the last thing I need - to come off as a besotted fool from your past, trying to lure you in.</p><p><em>You don’t have to try</em>… the inner voice sounds almost sly. Flustered, I thump my kit on the concrete of the roof.</p><p>“Fancy meeting you here,” I drawl.</p><p>Fuck. The same line I used when you showed up at the club that first night... what in the hell is wrong with me?? You’re not going to remember and you’re not going to care...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That line -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That first night in the pub -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'd just scared away that girl - heh -</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*No.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Don't be silly Moriarty. He won't remember - it's just a thing people say -*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Anyway.* We're here for murder. Don't get distracted.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"So - they tell me you're the best sniper the Regiment has churned out in quite a few years," I say, slowly.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“They say a lot of things, don’t they...” I murmur. It’s not something I brag about. This is between me and my rifle. But you can watch, and draw your own conclusions...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My eyes narrow. You don't seem someone to play down your skills - but then, apparently the SAS is like Fight Club - you do not talk about it. You especially don't let on who the best snipers were, because there are an awful lot of people out there with grudges - some of them entire countries.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I point at the exit of the building opposite. "Our mark will walk out of there at some point - we can't say when, that depends on how his meetings go. He'll be surrounded by six bodyguards, all of whom are a head taller than him, so he should be easy to spot, though not easy to hit. They'll bundle him into the car as soon as possible. You won't have much time."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I nod. “Got it.”</p><p>I set about assembling my rifle, eyeing the location through the scope, and beginning my assessment and calculations.</p><p>Thankfully you seem aware that I need to focus to get this right, and you don’t speak - you just type away on your phone and look up at me occasionally.</p><p>When I’m all ready to go, I exhale. “Prepare yourself for the boring bit, Sir... waiting.” I glance up at you, and then back through my scope.</p><p>“Do you often keep hired assassins company on jobs? That must keep you busy...”</p><p>I try to keep my lips from twitching but I suspect very little escapes your notice.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Do you often natter away during a job? That must make you popular..." I retort.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I chuckle, despite myself. “Point taken.”</p><p>I mime turning a key into my lips and sliding it into the front pocket of my black army trousers. And if it makes you think of my cock, well - that’s your business.</p><p>I put in my earplugs, hand you some – you take your hand out of your pocket, showing a personalized pair. Of course.</p><p> </p><p>A smile plays on my lips, and then I return to the matter at hand.</p><p>Waiting and watching like a hawk.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Yeah, yeah, Moran - first the kill, then the banter, please.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don't normally accompany assassins during their jobs, but mostly because having me look over their shoulder would paralyse most of them. I'm pretty confident you don't have a problem with it; or if you had, you would say. Also, I want to see if you're as good as they say you are, and see how you work. I can't snipe myself - I've tried, and I'm not a bad shot, but I don't have the patience nor the aptitude - but I do like watching a professional at work.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And when the time is right, I can be very patient.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>For forty-seven minutes, we sit and wait in silence. You hardly move, occasionally make minor adjustments when the wind picks up or calms down.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Then - there he is. I open my mouth, but you've spotted him.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It's almost anticlimactic. A loud bang, and Vjosa goes down.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So quick. So easy.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I fire off a text and a minute later the helicopter approaches. You've grabbed your rifle and are ready to run for it, when suddenly the side window shatters.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The helicopter tilts dramatically to the right and one of the blades hits the side wall - *shit* - the pilot got hit - that bastard must have had his own snipers - you grab me and push me down behind the exit, but the helicopter tumbles away, down behind the edge of the roof, out of sight.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>We're stuck on a roof without a helicopter, and with a load of pissed-off Albanians downstairs.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Aaaand, there goes the helicopter...</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>It’s always <em>something</em>... and if it was just me, then fuck it. I’d throw myself into a madcap escape without worrying about the end result. Survival mode is second nature to me - as familiar as breathing.</p><p>But I have you to think about. And I’m not about to let you fucking die, Jim Moriarty.</p><p>I haul you up and stride to the door that goes into the building... Throwing it open, I tell you to follow.</p><p>They’ll be waiting for us downstairs and sending men up to intercept us.</p><p>Of course I scoped out the building before the job, pinpointing the means of egress. The Albanians hopefully won’t know shit. They’ll enter the building and head for the lift and the staircase. We’ll take the riskier exit point, but I think you’ll manage just fine. You’re a survivor, too.</p><p>“What’s the plan, Moran?” you ask as we hurry across the mainly empty 25th floor, currently under renovations - you sound strangely fascinated. Of course, you’re like me in certain ways - dangerously in love with danger, aren’t you?</p><p>“There’s a fire escape on the other side of the building - a couple of floors down, we’ll be close enough to the roof of the building next door to jump for it. There’s a chance they won’t be looking for us there, but we’ll have to see what happens...”</p><p>We hurry down the fire escape, and when we get to the 23rd floor, I look up at you and gesture at the roof. It’s about a six-foot jump - fine for me, but I have no idea how you’ll feel about this.</p><p>“Good to go, Sir?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Damn. It's a jump that I *should* be able to make easily enough - but there's an awfully big risk if I slip or miss. Looking down makes me queasy - that's a - very long way to go. Moriarty ketchup when I'm down.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You first," I nod. You jump, land on the other side, turn and lean over, your hand outstretched towards me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's only six foot. If I was on the ground, I wouldn't think twice.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I take off my coat - the last thing I need is it billowing and creating air resistance. Then I climb over the railing, holding on for dear life, putting my feet on the edge of the grating, crouching slightly - *not* looking down at the death drop that now is right underneath me –</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I could just release my hands and everything would be gone -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*no Moriarty*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Right. All my muscles are tensed and primed. I look at you, at the roof you're standing on.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It's been raining. The grating's a bit wet.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I'm wearing my Russell and Bromley Oxford shoes. High-quality shining black patent, with leather soles.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>As my hands leave the railing, and my foot pushes off, I feel it. The little slip. Precious force that should be directed forward wasted in reduced friction.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And my body's already moving, lurching into the thin air. Moving forward, but not fast enough.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not far enough.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gravity pulls, eager to take me in her embrace.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I don't scream. Life doesn't pass before my eyes.</em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>Suddenly, a hand clasps around my left wrist, sure and strong as a vice. It pulls me back, and I push my other hand out, so I don't slam face-first into a blind wall, catch myself, then hold that arm up as well. Another hand grabs that wrist, and I'm being pulled up</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Before even a millisecond of mad panic has a chance to take over, I've grabbed you and hauled you up.</p><p>We stare at each other intently, breathing hard.</p><p>"Can't lose you when I've just-" I murmur, realizing my hands have moved to curl around yours.</p><p>"Started working for you..." I finish shakily, moving my hands away. "I'd never get the employee of the month award I have my eye on..."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That was lightning-fast, Tiger - and not without risk. If you'd have overbalanced, we'd both have gone flying...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>... though at least it would have been hand in hand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Right - no time to stand here and contemplate the thin line between life and death - we have Albanians to outrun.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You kick in the door to the stairs and we rush to the lift. There's no one around - most people will be at the windows, staring at the crashed helicopter. The lift comes and we get in. When it stops on the nineteenth floor I push the Close button as soon as the doors open, and you growl at the people waiting to get the next one.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I text a car to come get us - he'll be a few minutes, because I didn't quite plan to need him, so we get out in the basement and leave through the delivery entrance, then weave through the City, away from the scene of the crime. Fortunately Londoners refuse to be fazed by anything, so no one pays attention to the man in the rather smudgy suit accompanied by the guy in a hoodie carrying a long suitcase. The sun is shining, and I'm feeling rather giddy - the adrenaline rush.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I tell the driver to head towards my home address.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wasn't sure - I never let anyone into my house - but the office isn't quite suitable for what I have in mind.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was an effort not to manhandle you... I did it a couple of times when we were leaving the building, and then to get into the car... I was worried that the Albanians would catch up with us, and I didn’t want to slow down until we got to safety.</p><p>Even now in the car, I have eyes on the road all around us, and I don’t stop scanning for threats...</p><p>“Is where we’re heading secure?” You give me a look, and I shoot a look back at you. “It would be remiss of me not to ask...” I say drily.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"It is for me..." I smile. You look puzzled for a second, then realization dawns, and you look outside again, but not before I've seen some red on those sculpted cheeks.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The driver drops us off a few blocks from the building, and we walk the rest of the way.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It feels so odd to receive you in my flat - and reminds me of when I first took you 'home'. Quite a difference... The interior is sleek and tasteful, with sparse but expensive furniture and decorations. You stop in front of the painting - "Is that a real Ernst?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Of course," I nod, walking to the drinks cabinet, pouring us both a measure of whiskey.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's not Knappogue Castle - of course not.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's not like you'd remember. Anyway.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hand you a glass, raise it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"In loving memory of Vjosa Usmani and Henry Taylor... the helicopter pilot. Fortunately, neither of them are survived by spouses, and though Usmani had some children, he wasn't really involved in their lives."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I raise my glass silently. Shame about the pilot. But I didn't know him... and now I never will. Taking on risk is all part of the job... a soldier knows this well.</p><p> </p><p>I gulp down a mouthful, savouring the smoky flavour burning a trail down my throat. Good. I should have guessed you have exquisite taste - in everything. I walk around some more, taking in the decor. Dark, sombre, sumptuous... utterly you.</p><p>"Suits you..." I murmur. "Your - <em>ascendancy</em>..." I say, admiration in my eyes as I bring the glass to my lips.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Ascendancy*... how appropriate. From the lowest of the low, to the dizzying heights of being the most dangerous man in London - not bad for a scrawny junkie.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You seem perfectly at ease. Like shooting people, jumping abysses, and rescuing your boss from dropping to his death is all in a day's work - and I guess for you it is - or was, certainly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For me, that was a *bit* more excitement than I like. I prefer my challenges cerebral. Bashing into the side of an unwashed building and hurting my knee is not how I generally like to spend an afternoon - but all the adrenaline has left me rather giddy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I guess you may have been wondering what your future is in the Empire," I say, sitting on the armrest of the sofa, crossing my legs.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>God... the feeling of your eyes on me when you're deep in thought... <em>assessing</em> me... deciding what to do with me.</p><p>I've fucking <em>missed</em> that.</p><p>"More like... wondering how long it would take for you to tell me," I say, standing in front of you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"It depends..." I say, smiling over my glass. "You'll recall I gave you the option of going back to your life of sluttery, which you wisely, though reluctantly, rejected.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yannick tells me you've been performing well, and I have personally ascertained as much today. So I guess it's safe to say you're Moriarty's man now..."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Just as I suspected, you've been keeping me under close observation in my personal life as well... any sane man would be running for the hills at your audacity.</p><p>So long, life of sluttery...</p><p> </p><p>I feel a thrill move through me, and try to tamp down on it. It seems like high expectations are a bad idea when it comes to you - best just be open to whatever the present moment brings, Moran.</p><p>"Hmm..." I take another gulp of my whiskey. "Safe isn't a word I would associate with being Moriarty's man..."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I smile at that. "True enough. But then you've never been keen on *safety*, have you... Sebastian Moran..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I put my glass down, move over to where you're sitting, stand in front of you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Kneel."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I stare at you long and hard as everything slowly falls away - my dazed time at Eton and Oxford, the years in the army and then the Regiment, the disorienting days as a civilian and criminal, and then - seeing you again. All the confusion and anger and frustration melt away.</p><p>Past, present, and future are one for me now - there is only <em>Jim</em>.</p><p>There has only ever been Jim.</p><p>I finish my whisky, throw the glass aside onto the plush carpeting, and sink to my knees.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>There is a moment which lasts forever.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My eyes looking into yours. Your blue eyes, identical to the eyes of the teenage boy I knew, now in the face of an adult man. Lines in his face show he's seen things, experienced things - but the eyes are still the eyes of the boy who looked at me twelve years ago, looked at me for guidance, as his voice cracked, asking - 'How am I supposed to *go*??'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something stirs inside me, twists - no no no, we don't go there -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I take hold of your hair, move your head down, so those eyes no longer haunt me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Focus*, Moriarty. You have him where you want him - now what are you going to do with him?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>As I feel your hand on my hair, a strange image pops into my mind of you knighting me.</p><p>And then I remember - calling myself your knight, and you my King...</p><p> </p><p>We really were so young and idealistic and starry-eyed, weren't we... well, life had other ideas for us both. And I know neither of us sees things like we used to.</p><p>But there is something to this moment - you may not have a sword; you may not be saying the words...</p><p>but I'm taking a pledge, making an oath, even if I don't breathe a word...</p><p> </p><p>You are my pledge, my oath, Jim Moriarty... now do with me what you will.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I feel moved, shaken about like a ship on the waves - this is not how I intended to feel. I need to retain the initiative - this is a demonstration of who is in charge, and exactly how far that goes. Not some exploration of past memories.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I want you... I *definitely* want you, both as an employee and as a - well - sex... thingy. Definition to be filled in later.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But if I'm to keep you, I need to *own* you. We're not equals, Sebastian... I'm no longer that insecure child looking for a big protector, getting his head all turned by a handsome face and arse to die for. I have an Empire to run, I have enemies... if I'm to keep you close, you need to be more than loyal. You need to be *mine* completely.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>And you realize that... I'm sure you do. That's what your entire posture radiates.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Right then, my Knight of yore... let's put this to the test.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I stroke your hair, pull it back, so you're facing me again.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Bedroom," I breathe; turn and walk off.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>What <em>do</em> you want with me, Jim? Do you even know?</p><p>An elite, loyal soldier slash occasional hot fuck?</p><p>Do I remind you of your heart? Do you <em>like</em> having a reminder, as long as you keep me at a distance?</p><p>Or does it disturb you, and that’s why I’ve barely seen you?</p><p>These are questions I won’t ask, and you wouldn’t give me the answers anyway...</p><p>But you are drawn to me... I know this. Or you wouldn’t be bothering with me.</p><p>But I don’t have time to contemplate this anymore, on my knees and staring at your exquisite silk carpet. Because your hand is in my hair again - first with an affectionate gesture and then a dominating one.</p><p>Yes - please - I want it all.</p><p> </p><p>And I will follow you anywhere...</p><p> </p><p>I get up and soundlessly move across the carpet after you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My bedroom...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don't bring people into my bedroom. Encounters occur in hotels or dark corners or alleyways, not in my inner sanctum.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What was I thinking?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I open my walk-in wardrobe. "Wait here - I'm just getting out of this dirty suit."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Close the door behind me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This is all getting - rather close. Those eyes. Those bloody blue eyes... Shining like they shone that summer, that summer that I've buried forever, and has no right to stare at me like that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I throw my scraped and stained suit into the laundry bin, put on a new suit - appearance is important, after all - cuff links - tie pin.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I look at myself in the mirror.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dressed to kill.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Go and do this, Moriarty.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Alright... here I am.</p><p>In <em>your bedroom</em>...</p><p>I didn’t expect -</p><p>...</p><p>I look around in awe. How many people have seen your bedroom, Jim Moriarty?</p><p>Well, you said to wait. But you didn’t say not to move.</p><p>Gingerly I step further into the large room - it’s posh and between the luxurious carpets and curtains, so very quiet. Just the muffled swish of fabrics in your cupboard. You won’t be long, I’m sure.</p><p>What exactly do I think I’ll find - some clue to your inner workings, a hint about how to work my way into your heart? A hidden doorway where a magic word will open you up to me?</p><p>I take one more quiet step.</p><p>If anything I notice a surprising lack of personal things for a bedroom. But I do see a book - one lone book on the bedside table.</p><p>Only I can’t make out the title from here, and if I move in any farther... will you be irritated? Jesus, I don’t even feel like I should sit on the bed.</p><p>I realize I’m standing in Squad Attention as I wait - arms behind my back at the elbows. Wryly, I maintain the posture. I suspect you’ll appreciate it...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>As I walk in, you've taken on a soldier pose - of course you have.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I walk towards you, amble around you, appreciating the view. You stand still, stare straight ahead.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Go on, Moriarty... you're turned on after that adventure. You want him. He wants you. And he needs to know his place.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I stop at your side, sniff the scent of fresh sweat and windswept hoodie, lick your neck, startling you slightly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then I walk to a chair, sit down, take a cigarette out of the packet I just lifted from your pocket and light it with your lighter. Pickpocketing would be so much easier if we could lick all our marks...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I let the smoke slowly leak out of my mouth, momentarily hiding you in a mysterious mist, as if you're an apparition from another world, suddenly manifested here in my bedroom.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Strip."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Wait - when did you-</p><p>God... you haven’t lost your touch as a pickpocket. I smile faintly, remembering the first day we met. I’m about to say something about it, when -</p><p>Jim Moriarty is sitting before me, temporarily obscured from view by plumes of smoke. But I can imagine the expression on your face very clearly... and you lean forward slightly through the smoke to utter a single word.</p><p> </p><p><em>Oh.</em> That I can do...</p><p>I lean down to take off my tac boots, quickly unlacing and kicking them off. I pull off my socks, straighten -</p><p>Off with the jacket and shirt -</p><p>Trousers down -</p><p>Pants down -</p><p>Everything is in a heap on the floor and I’m naked before you.</p><p>“Sir.” I say, my voice low and rough.</p><p>Then your eyes lock on mine, and suddenly it’s like I’m stupefied, drowning in amber...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You're naked and semi-erect, your eyes large, voice hoarse. What do you think may happen, my dear Tiger?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I stand up, walk around you, having a good look at you. Filled up in all the right ways, matured - and got damaged. No tattoos, thank fuck - I hate those. But scars aplenty.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I see if I can identify them all. That was a bullet, fortunately straight through without any major organs hit. A knife; another knife, but bigger - maybe a machete. And those - ah. Those were torture.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Some smaller ones from scrapes and scraps - overall you've lived an eventful life.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Without me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Don't go there Jim.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What would it have been like if I hadn't run? If we'd moved to Britain together? Would I have gone into crime? Probably... but would I have been as determined and dedicated?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Do. Not. Go. There. Jim.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We are here now. You are a soldier. I am a crime lord.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I'm going to make you feel what it's like to be owned by Jim Moriarty.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You walk around me, examining me from all angles... your eyes rake over my body with all the subtlety of razor-sharp blades. I’m surprised the scars you’re staring at with such fascination don’t start bleeding spontaneously...</p><p>God, the way you look at me is so <em>possessive</em>... like a king surveying his realm. His <em>territory</em>...</p><p>Jesus... was it this bloody hot in the room when I first came in??</p><p>“Like what you see, Sir?” I hear myself drawl. Oh... we’re falling into that dynamic, are we? Not without consequences... but as I recall consequences at your hands can be... so... stimulating. I feel the hint of a smirk playing on my lips as I stare straight ahead.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Hmmm..." I muse.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*You could have been more careful with my property...*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No, Jim. Fuck's sake, leave the past in the past or you're going to get all tangled up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Very nice." I walk closer, lean towards you, the cigarette in my mouth. Closer... closer...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The glowing tip is a quarter inch from your skin, but you don't flinch, don't move. It's only with the most careful observation I see a slight tension in your muscles.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I suck at the cigarette, so the temperature in the tip more than doubles. I can see the glow reflected in your skin... but you remain still.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well done, stoic soldier.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unfortunately I love driving stoic people over the edge...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Now I have even more reason to feel hot... getting awfully close there with a lit cigarette, aren’t you, Jim.</p><p>Ohh, you want to see me squirm, don’t you, Jim.</p><p>You might have chosen someone who hadn’t actually been tortured by enemy forces if you wanted flailing and shrieking...</p><p>But then... I don’t recall enemy forces having eyes that make me feel like I’m pinned to a specimen board... and desperate for you to <em>do something</em>, no matter what...</p><p>Fuck... I feel myself beginning to perspire, and I focus on keeping my breath steady. I lick my lips and force myself to stare back at you and not at the burning cigarette straying ever closer to my flesh.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I pull back, extinguish the cigarette in the ashtray.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What to do with a stoic Tiger...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well, there's nothing saying we can't both have a little fun.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I walk into the wardrobe again, open the side cupboard in which I keep my toys.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Such riches... and a Tiger waiting, nay, *keen*, to feel them all on his skin...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I take the signal whip, one of my favourites. So versatile - the little thread at the end can give tiny nips, whereas the main thin body carries a ferocious bite, if wielded with force.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I walk out, see your eyes grow large, your cock twinge and stiffen - that hasn't changed then, has it, Sebastian?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ohh...</p><p>You don’t have to make do with makeshift equipment anymore...</p><p>God... the 14-year-old with a taste for kink and propensity for dominance is fully grown... and coming towards me with what looks like a <em>good</em>, high-quality whip...</p><p>and most importantly, I can see by the way you’re giving it an experimental flick, you know what you’re fucking doing...</p><p>I hear my breath hitch in my throat. You notice.</p><p>Of course you notice...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Mmm... my Tiger likes a bit of pain, does he? If I recall correctly, you were anything but squeamish when you were seventeen... how is that now you're 29?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I let my whip fly, let it bite fierily into your arse cheeks, the little string lashing your hip on the side. Not the hardest lash, but enough to show you we're not playing here.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh. Christ.</p><p>A low groan... my head falling back slightly...</p><p>Jesus. You <em>just started</em>; I can’t fall to pieces...</p><p> </p><p>Oh my god. I’m being <em>whipped</em> for real...</p><p>by <em>Jim</em>.</p><p>Falling to pieces may be inevitable at your hands... but <em>not yet</em>.</p><p>I take a deep breath, waiting for your next lash. I think we’re heading into uncharted territory now... I close my eyes and shiver.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>So responsive...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I lash again, slightly lower. Another shiver, lighter this time, deep breath.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A third lash. Your eyes close, an expression on your face that's almost serene.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ah, no, Sebastian... this is not going to be one of those whippings that you can sink into. Not yet. Don't want you to get too comfortable too soon...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I lash the front of your thighs.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>Fuck!</em> A ragged cry bursts from my lips, and my body jerks in surprise.</p><p> </p><p>I toy with BDSM when I hook up with someone who happens to be into it, but it’s always pretty standard fare. Restraints. Some flogging. Various toys...</p><p>They <em>never</em> whip me like this -</p><p>Not like you...</p><p>oh god...</p><p>just like you used to...</p><p>Fuck I’ve missed this...</p><p> </p><p>Breathing unevenly, I open my eyes look at you.</p><p>“I’m not - getting out of here unmarked, am I?” I breathe.</p><p>Fuck - yes - <em>mark me...</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I walk to right in front of you, look deeply into your dark eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Do you *want* to?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I exhale slowly, feeling a tremble in my muscles.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a part of me resisting - Basher, the rebellious and defiant fucker... sneering at the thought, and telling me I gave in too quickly, I should have held out longer, and put up more of a fight...</p><p> </p><p>There’s another part of me that’s been lying in wait for this moment for twelve long years... and would have gone on waiting for the rest of my life. This part of me, your knight, your <em>Tiger</em>, was marked by you under the skin a long time ago.</p><p> </p><p>Basher never stood a chance...</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck. No.” I say hoarsely. “But it’s not up to me.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Good* answer, Moran...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Moran is easier to think than Sebastian. Moran is a soldier, a grown man, a sexy player. Not the Sebastian who cried in my arms.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Stop it...*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Moran.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hot soldier, happy to be marked - but knows it's not his decision...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>because I am *Moriarty*.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Stay still, Tiger..."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>God... you <em>said it.</em></p><p>Did I dream it?</p><p>...</p><p>No. You <em>called me Tiger</em>...</p><p> </p><p>I’ll stay as still as you want, Jim... I inhale and steady myself for whatever’s coming.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I lash your arse, your thighs, back and front, feeling the impact so intensely when it reverberates through the whip to my hand, recording every jerk of your muscles, every slight gasp, every mark appearing on your skin, turning from white to red...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*fuck* has anyone else ever been under my whip? Surely that wasn't real - it's just *you*, your tiniest whimper at a particularly hard lash, your breath now shallow, your fingers digging into your palms, oh *fuck* -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No - keep it together, Moriarty. You're calm, you're *cool*, you're in *charge*.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I stop lashing, walk around you, assessing the impact. Beautiful red stripes, nicely parallel.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I walk back into the wardrobe, come back out with a pair of handcuffs, nod to the bed.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>God...</p><p>so... good...</p><p>Fuuuuck, Jim...</p><p>I’m going to be marked alright... god, I can only imagine what I’ll look like tomorrow.</p><p>I can hardly wait to see it...</p><p> </p><p>I pant lightly as you walk around me, surveying your work.</p><p>And then... I do as I’m told and head to the bed.</p><p>Dazed. Shaky. And hard as a rock.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My bed has convenient metal rods to chain people to, though I never have. I couldn't have a more gorgeous specimen to start with, though...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I loop the cuffs around one, and you obediently hold up your hands to be tied. My lamb to the slaughter.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I pick up the whip again and get to work on your chest.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Something comes over me as you slide the cuffs over my wrists. We’ve fucked a couple of times now, and it was mind-meltingly hot, but this - this is quintessentially <em>us</em>. You restraining me, attaching me to something if you see fit... and then -</p><p>The whip is lifted up again and falls hard against my chest over and over...</p><p>Small gasps and groans fill the air of your bedroom -</p><p>God, I’m in your <em>bedroom</em>, tied up, being whipped... and I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do next...</p><p>I cry out sharply as the whip lashes a nipple - and then the other.</p><p>God, Jim... no one can do what you do to me... <em>no one</em>...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You're sinking into this... and I let you, for now. Sink into my pain, Sebastian - let your world be pain. I am pain - and I am your world.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don't stop when I reach your stomach - your belly - and the last skilled lash flicks the thread against the shaft of your cock.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sharp intake of breath -</p><p>A low moan -</p><p>I have tried to keep it in, I really have.</p><p>But it feels almost - disloyal? - to not show you what this is doing to me, how this is melting my brain, my armour, my -</p><p>Nono, I need that, I protest silently. Panic begins to rise at the thought of laying everything bare before you - you - are not the Jim I knew.</p><p>Even though I know he’s in there, buried deep in Moriarty’s psyche.</p><p>But Moriarty will not take care with my heart...</p><p> </p><p>But I can do this - I can work for you, get fucked by you, whipped by you...</p><p>I can do this and not get swept away by it...</p><p><em>Who are you fucking kidding, Moran?</em> I hear my defiant self growl in response.</p><p>Nono, I <em>can</em>, I can handle-</p><p>I cry out sharply at the sudden stinging lash against my shaft - like a tiny vicious lick from a serpent’s tongue...</p><p>“Oh god-“ I moan, sagging slightly. “Jim-“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I lash the front of your thighs hard, three times.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I'm sorry - Sir -" you gasp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Don't make that mistake, Sebastian..." I say in a low voice. "Boss or Sir in public. Sir in the bedroom. Anything else..." I lash again, in the same places, "can get a man in *serious* trouble."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Jim was a very long time ago. No one calls me Jim now. And no one ever will, again.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>FuckFuckFuck... you've gone over those spots over and over and it fucking hurts...</p><p>but better treatment be on the harsh side than not <em>enough</em> -</p><p>All I've had since you is not enough, <em>never enough</em>...</p><p>and I'll take your heavy-handed approach to discipline and count my lucky stars.</p><p>Because that's what this is, right? Discipline?</p><p>You want me to act a certain way, think of you a certain way, respond instinctively at your command?</p><p>Done. God... <em>done</em>.</p><p>But whatever my lips say - in my mind you're Jim.</p><p>And always fucking will be.</p><p> </p><p>When I stop moaning from the pain, I look up at you, panting. And I can't help but give you a heated look through half-closed eyes.</p><p>"Understood. Sir."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You seem entirely ecstatic about all this, as does your cock. I've whipped masochists before, of course, but few like it as hard as you apparently do…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>let's see what else we can bring. The night is still young.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I walk into the wardrobe again; come out with a sharp knife. Can't resist licking it sensuously.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>My eyes widen as I see you lick a <em>knife</em> and then approach me, fondling the blade.</p><p>Well then. We’ve gone to the next level, have we.</p><p>I can’t imagine most people not freaking out in this position.</p><p>But most people aren’t -</p><p>(danger junkies) -</p><p><em>elite soldiers</em> who consider things like fear and pain and violence as seasonings for their day.</p><p>It’s unsettling. But I also feel my eyes glinting even as I watch you carefully.</p><p>Your move, Jim...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Your eyes are *fascinating*. You are slightly taken aback - of course. I doubt any of your hook-ups ever pulled out a knife as foreplay. But you're intrigued, and your cock isn't going down in the slightest.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I smile, set myself on your thighs, lean forward, keeping looking you in the eyes. Your tongue licks your lips, you swallow, but you keep your gaze fixed on me, not on the knife.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Very smart, Tiger... I'm the danger here.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I trace the blade across your jaw, then slide it to your throat, twisting slightly, so the sharp edge touches your skin.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You lie very, very still, breathing steadily, not swallowing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I always love this. This edge between life and death, this moment of absolute power over someone - one inch to the right, and you'll be dead in fifteen seconds.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I feel the blade pressing lightly against my skin, and feel a flutter in my heart.</p><p>Is this where the journey ends, Moran?</p><p>Who’s to say it won’t...</p><p>but I know one thing. If my life is to end, I’d rather it be under your hands than in any other circumstance under the sun.</p><p>At least I’d be in your presence.</p><p>Do with me what you will, Jim... you’ve given me all I’ve ever wanted.</p><p>I lift my chin slowly, exposing my throat to you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Not only do you not flinch - that's your training -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- but you *offer your throat up to me*.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>And you're not playing - it's not a challenge.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You *know* I would.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And you'd *let me*.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I look into your eyes, see no fear, just fascination.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's a bit like in the cabin - you live for the danger. But there's more -</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I'm not killing you yet, Moran. I've only just begun having my fun.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I move the knife down, slowly, scraping the tip across your skin, just scratching, making you hiss when it crosses the lashes I made.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then I stop at your eighth rib, and make a shallow cut along one of the lash lines, three inches long.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Red blood wells up.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I breathe in sharply.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>... I was preparing myself for a death stroke - but I wasn’t expecting <em>that</em>...</p><p>I glance down to see the blood pooling in the cut, and then back up at you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A sharp breath, and a shudder.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eyes on me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dark, large eyes. Surprised - but not shocked. Not indignant.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No pulling at the restraints, no words of protest - just large blue eyes, waiting to see what I'll do next.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I like symmetry - make a similar cut on the right side, lick the blood that wells up, then lick my lips, smile at you.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>My lips twitch ever so slightly.</p><p>You haven’t changed much when it comes to what you like... dark, deviant, and bloody; that’s what you were like then.</p><p>And that’s what you’re like now... it’s just that the stakes are a lot higher since you became him - Moriarty.</p><p>God, I still can’t believe it’s you. <em>Him</em>. Whatever.</p><p>I’m whipped to hell and bleeding under your knife. And I think I just offered my life to you, to do with as you like...</p><p>that’s bound to addle one’s mind somewhat.</p><p>Mesmerized, I watch you - wondering what I’m in for...</p><p>And to think I asked to be marked... you’re nothing if not obliging, Jim Moriarty...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Still just fascination. When you have a madman with a knife smiling at you, his lips stained by your blood.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You are one interesting specimen, Sebastian Moran...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I move the knife down, trace it past your cock, which is hardly flinching, follow it with my mouth, licking slow stripes from your balls up your shaft, just resting the knife against the other side.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh my fucking god... the knife at my throat wasn’t enough?</p><p>I’m barely breathing as the blade travels down, down, down... and then your tongue-</p><p>...</p><p>Oh Jesus, your <em>tongue</em> -</p><p>My breathing grows uneven. I open my eyes to see you watching me as you <em>lick</em> me, the blade still touching my skin...</p><p>When I try to suppress a shiver, I fail.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Shivers now... good.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I move the blade down, spread your legs. Your eyes are definitely getting a bit uncertain now - but kudos to you, you don't resist, don't move away, don't question, don't challenge...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I make several tiny slices into the skin of your inner thighs, an inch apart. You shudder slightly and there's an intake of breath - so strong. So brave...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I slowly slowly wear you down, by making little cuts all over your body, interspersed by sucking your cock, then stopping when I feel you get close. The latter appears harder on you than the former.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When I've made some cuts on your back, I whip you again. When I turn you back round, I can see there have been some tears.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You seem exhausted, so we have a break and share a cigarette. Your cry sounds like an animal's when I extinguish it in one of the cuts on your chest.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I know what you’re doing, I think faintly as you cut me again...</p><p>and again...</p><p><em>I know what you’re doing, Jim Moriarty</em>, I rail silently as you stop just on the verge of my orgasm -</p><p>over -</p><p>and over -</p><p>and <em>over</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Of course I know what you’re doing... you’re breaking me down, taking me apart... slowly... systematically... ruthlessly...</p><p>The tears still surprise me when they break free.</p><p>Oh you’re good...</p><p>you’re so <em>fucking good</em>, Sir.</p><p>A slap across my face jars me out of my near-trance. I must have said that aloud?</p><p>...</p><p>I’ve lost track now, inner world vs outer world...</p><p>When you burn me, my steely control slips further. Of course it does, it’s only a matter of time... You’ll know what’s inside, and you will be unrelenting, unsparing... downright unforgiving.</p><p>After all, I’m the only one who knows you.</p><p>“I’m the one who knows,” I ramble, my eyes blurred with tears.</p><p><em>Slap</em>.</p><p>My face is burning from the slap, my flesh is burning...</p><p>I look at you through wet, stinging eyes. “Sorry, Sir,” I mutter.</p><p>You stare back at me, looking utterly intrigued. The boundary is growing thin, and <em>you</em> are drawing closer and closer...</p><p>a predatory animal. A wolf circling its prey in the darkness of night.</p><p>Eyes gleaming, transfixed... riveted...</p><p>That’s something, isn’t it? It’s me you’re fascinated by...</p><p>I let out a shaky breath, staring back at you intently. The prey waits for the inevitable... and Moran waits for the thing that the army, war, torture, near-fatal wounding, and a bloody tiger attack could not succeed at - taking this soldier down.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*You're the one who knows*?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You think *that's* why I'm doing this?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And - knows *what* exactly? You think you're Peter Sarstedt?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"That's not why I'm doing this, my dear Sebastian... We'd established you wouldn't talk about me to anyone already. I didn't think you'd need to be reminded..."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I look at you in confusion as waves of pain sweep over me and throb throughout my body. I’ve never felt such a vivid tapestry of pain... god, you’re masterful.</p><p> </p><p>I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts.</p><p>What? No - of course I wouldn’t tell anyone...</p><p>Is that what you think??</p><p>My jaw sets.</p><p>“I would never,” I say hoarsely. “And you know it... Sir.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Of course... so, tell me. Why do you think I'm doing all this?" I sweep my hand over your body, by now a beautiful work of a lunatic painter.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Because you’re a fucking sadist, of course.</p><p><em>And</em> the perfectly obvious other reason - some kind of punishment/lashing out for what we shared? For knowing a side of you nobody else does, even if it’s buried so deep you don’t even know it?</p><p>But how the fuck do I put that into words, without you gutting me like a freshly killed deer?</p><p>“Because you enjoy it, Sir. Why else?” I mutter. My head is lowered but I give you a sidelong glance.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Very good..." I smile.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"And so do you... don't you."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I smile faintly. “Was trying so hard - to keep it a secret... What gave me away?” My smile has become a smirk. God, I really just can’t help myself, can I... even in this state, I’m a cocky bastard.</p><p>But then... I think you like that, too.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I smile, shake my head. You're quite an amazing specimen, Sebastian Moran...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then bend towards your face, lick it, tasting the salt of your tears.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I've tasted your blood, your sweat, and your tears... well done so far, Tiger."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I kiss your mouth, softly, sweetly.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I melt into your kiss... so like the ones you used to give me. Never mind that twelve years have gone by... for me it’s like five minutes has passed since you closed the door on the day I left.</p><p><em>Jim</em>, I think dreamily.</p><p> </p><p>Then something you said breaks through the sweet haze -</p><p><em>So far</em>...</p><p>My heart sinks. Not that I haven’t been enjoying being the focal point of your attention, savage though it is... but I’m getting freaked out about how much more I can fucking take. I’ve never gone <em>this far</em> out of my comfort zone, even in war...</p><p>where are you taking me?</p><p>And what the fuck lies beyond the limits of Sebastian Moran?</p><p>A note of panic rises in me, and I fight it back. But I know there’s not much fight left in this Tiger... I stare back at you with wet eyes.</p><p>“I aim to please, Sir...” I murmur.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I see that little flare of panic... what else do I have planned?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So far you've been holding out admirably, but you're not sure how long you will be able to keep that up. And that's exactly what I want, Sebastian...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I *know* you're a great big strong soldier. I *know* you can withstand torture. I *know* you like it rough.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But where I want to go, is a place of mystery, even to you... I want to take you to a land you don't yet know. A place you may even be a little scared of...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want you to let go, Sebastian. Let go of that admirable self-control.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want you weeping. Begging. Thinking you can't possibly go on.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And then, *maybe*... I'll scoop you up, brush you off, and declare you mine.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I get two ropes and tie your ankles to the corners of the footboard, so your legs are spread, then pick up my whip.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh Christ, oh <em>fuck</em>...</p><p>What are you going to-</p><p><em>Calm down</em>, Moran...</p><p>You’re fucking in for it, now... but you <em>wanted</em> to be at his mercy, remember?</p><p>So now - whatever he does, and I mean <em>whatever</em> he does... so be it.</p><p> </p><p>My forehead creases as you grow closer, and I exhale slowly.</p><p><em>Qui audet adipiscitur</em>, fucker...</p><p>You’re in for a hell of a ride...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I step onto the bed, so as to have better access to the area now revealed - the thin skin at the inside of your legs, not to mention the area between the legs, so vulnerably displayed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I start by just dancing my whip around - the insides of your calves and thighs, just lightly slapping your testicles, shaft, and perineum with the cord at the end. You are good with pain, but you do not like it when I threaten your most vulnerable parts...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Soon I get to harder lashes, making red weals on the inside of your legs, making you jump and gasp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The lashes on your balls and cock are less hard, but enough to make you whimper.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fuck, Jim!! What the fuck!!</em>
</p><p>The inside of my head feels like it's <em>caving in</em> from all this sensation...</p><p>are you trying to make me fall apart at the seams??</p><p><em>Of course</em> he is, you idiot...</p><p> </p><p>I'm breathing unevenly, trying to drive back the panic that keeps overtaking me, and soon I hear something that sounds like a <em>sob</em> -</p><p>"I can't - I can't -"</p><p>what the fuck is happening??</p><p>"God – please -" I moan, squeezing my eyes shut and feeling a tear trickle out along my cheek.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I keep lashing for a moment, then kneel down, lick up the tear, and while I'm down, head back to your cock, throbbing now. I lick around the head, flick my tongue across the lines I've just made.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"What can't you, Sebastian?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t fucking-“ I suck in my breath as your tongue continues to torment me sweetly.</p><p>“God! <em>Take</em> this any more -“ I shout, feeling my entire body quiver as you run your teeth gently over my head. “Please, just-“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I sit up, look at you, a faint smile.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Just what, darling?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I want to fucking scream. <em>You know very well...</em></p><p>But you want to hear it, you want me to beg?</p><p>God, I am so beyond pride at this moment...</p><p>I stare back at you with wet eyes.</p><p>“Please-“ I whisper, breathing shakily. “Please let me come, Sir...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I look at your face, the tears, the desperate eyes -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Those eyes. Again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The eyes of the teenage boy I loved so much –</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*loved* -</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My hand wants to move, stroke your face, dry your tears, hold you, make you come, make you smile -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- it nearly trembles with the urge -</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*No. What the FUCK are you playing at, Sebastian Moran -*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I punch your stomach, hard. You didn't see it coming and try to bend double with the impact, but are prevented by your restraints.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I aim punches at your ribs, a final one at your jaw –</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>how dare you. How *dare* you.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Lucky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You stare at me long and hard.</p><p>Did I think you would hear my plea?</p><p>I think I did... I even thought I saw a flash of wistfulness in your eyes... like the night you returned to my life.</p><p>But it must have been wishful fucking thinking, because the next thing you do -</p><p>and the next, and the next –</p><p><em>god</em> -</p><p><em>Jim</em> -</p><p>With each blow that lands, I shout at the impact, shocked and wordless responses breaking free -</p><p>leaving me gasping -</p><p> </p><p><em>Fucking stop</em>, I want to bark at you. But I can't, <em>I can't</em>, I put myself in this position, you're the King, and I'm your Knight-</p><p>I'm your <em>Knight</em> -</p><p>The King is a lot darker than he used to be, and violent, and cruel... But an oath is meaningless if broken, even when the oath is unspoken...</p><p>As you pause, I give a shuddering sigh, wincing at the sensation in my ribs - cracked, maybe. Panting raggedly, I stare at you. Should I expect <em>more?</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I stop.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Calm down, Moriarty.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Icy spark in the centre of the brain.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Expand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Coolness.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Collectedness.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"You come when it pleases me, Sebastian. Not you."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Part of me wants to rail at you...</p><p>But the part that’s in control won’t do it, not now.</p><p>Not after everything I’ve gone through in the last twelve years that brought me here.</p><p>
  <em>Back to you.</em>
</p><p>I nearly let out a sob at that - Jesus. I’m farther gone than I thought.</p><p> </p><p>But you have a point, mental though it may be. The King makes the rules... the Knight follows. Even if the King turns out to be a sadistic little monster. He’s <em>my</em> sadistic little monster.</p><p> </p><p>I look up at you. “Just as it fucking should be, Sir,” I say in a raspy voice, bordering on a growl.</p><p>Whatever the fuck you want, Jim. Just like always.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Good.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Obedience.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I get to work caning the soles of your feet - one of the most sensitive places on the human body.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I lash hard.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jesus - fucking - <em>Christ!!</em></p><p>Tears are flowing freely from my eyes now...</p><p>I’m crying out in pain at each lash.</p><p>But there’s something growing in me, and it’s not submissiveness - it’s anger.</p><p>You want to cut me to ribbons? Fine.</p><p>You want to break me down, make me sob? <em>Fine</em>.</p><p>But I <em>fucking know you</em>, Jim...</p><p>Deep down, you’re still that sweet boy I loved, no matter how sadistic, how cruel, how-</p><p>Mother<em>fucker!!</em></p><p>A sob escapes me.</p><p>Oh no...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When your feet are covered in angry red lines, I head back to your cock - I haven't forgotten that, Seb...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You groan and writhe as I lick and suck, but I know you're not going to come - I've forbidden it, so it won't happen.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Interesting that I am so confident of that -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- and it's more than that. I trust you -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That's mad. I don't trust *anyone*.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I know that you would take a bullet for me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh – there’s a thought.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If you're my bodyguard, you need to stay close to me - maybe even move in -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have always resisted having a permanent bodyguard, because I hate having people in my space - but maybe...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Anyway.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I get off your cock with a popping sound and you let out a whimper.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I untie your ankles, lay you on your front again, and start caning your legs.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When your entire body is a mass of weals and cuts, in which two more cigarettes have been extinguished, and you are barely coherent; weeping softly, hanging in your cuffs, I finally penetrate you.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Mostly what follows is a blur. Sexual Torment, PainPainPain... Not much room for thought.</p><p>But one thought does come through crystal clear, as I see the dark delight in your eyes before you flip me over.</p><p><em>I was wrong</em>... you’re not doing this just because I saw your true self back then.</p><p>You would have done this anyway... there was sadistic pleasure in your eyes back then, it’s just matured now like a fine wine - the kind that stains one’s mouth dark red, and coaxes out the most seething, saturnine thoughts.</p><p>But whipping me senseless, beating me, demanding obeisance, controlling my orgasm... burning me, torturing me...</p><p>I know it gives you <em>extra</em> pleasure to rain down this kind of pain on the one who held you as you cried...</p><p>Well,<em> I’m</em> the only one crying now. And all I’m held by is restraints, and my Endless. Fucking. Loyalty.</p><p>My contemplation is brought to a screaming stop as I feel your cock prodding my entrance. I let out a strangled cry as you thrust into me.</p><p>Not because it hurts - even though it does in that good way, that perverse way, that comes of being used for someone’s pleasure -</p><p>But because after everything I’ve gone through, everything you’ve done to me, this is <em>still</em> all I want, all I’ve <em>ever</em> wanted -</p><p>And it doesn’t matter what <em>you</em> think about that - you beautiful fucking psycho.</p><p>Desire flares up in me, and I find myself moaning helplessly as you fuck me <em>so</em> deliciously hard I think I may pass out...</p><p>Or maybe that’s just from the blood loss.</p><p>I find myself sniggering at the thought.</p><p><em>We are so fucked</em>, I think, laughing wildly as you go even harder.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I reach for the knife again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You groan, and stiffen, but you were doing that anyway.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I remember wanting to carve my initials into you before you left... and realized how psychopathic that was, and shamefully pushed the thought away.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Now, twelve years later, the world is kneeling at my feet, *because* I'm a psychopathic genius, and I don't let myself be inhibited by shame any more.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>No small monogram in your pelvis either.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Gonna kill me for laughing, Jim? Well, dying as I’m being fucked by you would be an epic way to go, I think wryly.</p><p>But I feel the point of the knife pressing into my shoulder, right next to my right scapula... and then it keeps going deeper.</p><p><em>“Fuck!”</em> escapes explosively from my lips - followed by uneven breathing as I try to stave off panic at the blinding, searing pain as you cut into me.</p><p>What the fuck are you doing, Jim??</p><p>Oh...<em>Oh</em>...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I'm surprised at the lucidity of the expletive. Your utterances have been hardly intelligible for a while now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But there's something about feeling a knife cut your skin that brings instant clarity – isn’t there?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I concentrate on my lines, keeping still inside you for each one, thrusting hard in between. And you don't move when I'm cutting; nothing but a slight tremble in your arms as you hang from the cuffs. Do you know what's happening? Are you proud? Want it to look perfect?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>oh god -</p><p>This is a fucking first.</p><p>- Oh god -</p><p>And Last.</p><p><em>Fuck </em>-</p><p>And Always.</p><p> </p><p>You’re marking me-</p><p><em>Permanently</em>.</p><p>I know what you’re doing, Jim-</p><p>I know what you-</p><p>God -</p><p>M. A fucking <em>M</em>.</p><p>There’s a pause, and I imagine you admiring your handiwork, angry and violent and red -</p><p>Moriarty...</p><p><em>Mine</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Tears are streaming down my face again or maybe they never stopped.</p><p>And I’m laughing again, long and hard, the kind that turns into sobbing at the drop of a hat.</p><p>“You bloody psycho...” I gasp as I catch my breath. “Sir.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*All this* and you still have belligerence left in you -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and then the 'Sir' -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can't help but laugh.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And then I thrust inside you, hard, over and over and over again.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I groan at every thrust.</p><p>My shoulder is <em>screaming</em> with pain, my entire body feels like it’s being consumed by fire, I’m slick with blood and sweat...</p><p>and you’re inside me, fucking me like a dark-eyed demon...</p><p>I am now <em>marked</em> with your initial like <em>property</em>.</p><p>And I have never felt so alive.</p><p>I’m gasping and groaning as intense, feverish pleasure mounts in me at an alarming rate.</p><p>My orgasm is bearing down on me like a runaway horse, on a collision course with my willpower -</p><p>Oh god I can’t<em>- I can’t</em> -</p><p> </p><p>Hold the line, soldier...</p><p><em>Fucking hold</em> –</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You're mine now. Fully, completely mine.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You can never walk away again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Never take a plane unless I tell you to get on it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I will kill you before I ever let you leave, Sebastian.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It's alright now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can come. Come in your beautiful body, *mine*, completely mine, every little inch of it bearing my marks...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Mine..." I groan, and let go, release, the pressure that has been building...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I shudder as my orgasm explodes through my body, unbearably pleasurable sensation radiating from my pelvis outwards - *fuck* fuck fuck...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh god... as much I could have killed for an orgasm a moment ago, all I can think of now is <em>yours</em>.</p><p>Sweeping through like a tidal wave - violent spasms against me, pulsing into me...</p><p><em>God, yes</em>, come inside me, give me everything...</p><p> </p><p>I groan as you collapse against me, your body resting against my whipped and cut up back. But I don't even care -</p><p>Give me all of you... Jim...</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p>The strange things that go through our minds during intense experiences of pain and pleasure, I think as I struggle to catch my breath.</p><p>I'm intimately acquainted with the real Jim Moriarty now.</p><p>As if he would give me More...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>After I've pulled out of you, I walk to the bathroom and clean myself up, then zip up again. I'm still wearing my full suit - covered in bloodstains now; it's probably ruined.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When I walk back, you're still in the position I left you in, panting, hanging in your cuffs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You look a state - covered in weals and blood and some smears of ashes, trembling on your knees -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>it has to be the most beautiful sight I've ever seen.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And on your back, in angry red, my mark.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You're mine, Sebastian... Mind, body, and soul. You know that, right?" I ask as I walk closer.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Well, you’re the last to know, Jim Moriarty...</p><p>“God, if I didn’t by now... I’d be in real fucking trouble,” I mutter in a daze. A wave of dizziness passes over me, and I shake my head to clear my mind.</p><p>Don’t you fucking pass out, Moran...</p><p>God, I’d never forgive myself... although I’m sure it would amuse my new, exciting Boss and Owner...</p><p>I exhale, and my head falls back slightly. “Forgive me. That’s a yes, Sir...” I murmur, closing my eyes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I've had more trouble getting people...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Were you *still* mine, I wonder? Have you just always been mine; taking yourself off to the army in order to become the perfect right-hand man for me? All just waiting for the day when I'd come back and reclaim my mislaid property?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well, you could have done worse... Could have finished at Oxford and become a history teacher; and who wants one of those? Or you could have followed in your dad's footsteps and gone into politics... that *would* have been useful, but I'm pretty sure you'd rather cook and eat your own liver for breakfast than do what your dear papa wants. I could *make* you do it of course... but boy, would I have a surly Tiger on my hands *then*...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I turn you around, so you're lying there facing me. Your cock still stands there hopefully, and yes dear, the time for your release is nigh...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I flick my finger against the head, watch it bounce.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Do you want to come, Sebbie?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I wince. Oh <em>god</em>...</p><p>What kind of question is that?</p><p>A trick?</p><p>I feel myself on a precipice - on one side, there's crushing disappointment and sexual frustration. On the other, there's - god... who knows?</p><p> </p><p>I take a breath and stare at you steadily. "If you want me to, Sir..."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"That's the right answer," I smile, and waste no more time, move my mouth down to your cock, which is trembling in anticipation - I've been here so much tonight, will this be it? or will I still pull the rug from under you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I get to work aggressively - I know what you want, and I know how to get it...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I look down and the sight of your lips moving on my cock... and I nearly come on the spot.</p><p>But then your eyes look up at me, and I’m so transfixed, somehow I don’t - my head drops down and I start to gasp and moan...</p><p> </p><p>Ohhh... <em>GOD</em>...</p><p>Is this for real, are you going to-</p><p>Oh my fucking god, I can’t-</p><p>I <em>can’t</em>-</p><p>OhFuckPleaseJimPleaseJimPlease-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I feel your balls contracting. Your orgasm is imminent.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I stop, get up off the bed, walk out the door.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>FUUUUUUCK... <em>NO</em>.</p><p>You did it again. You fucking <em>did it again</em>.</p><p>I blink back furious tears, and let out a strangled sob.</p><p>FUCKYOUJIMYOUMOTHERFUCKING-</p><p>I open my mouth to unleash a filthy stream of curses.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Yes, darling?</em>
</p><p>I cut myself off abruptly, as I feel your presence sidle up to me. Somehow.</p><p> </p><p>What the fuck - I’ve<em> internalized</em> you?</p><p> </p><p>You shrug a shoulder, all insouciant elegance.</p><p>
  <em>If you like... or perhaps I’m your guardian angel, wearing the most compelling face I could find. Are you feeling compelled yet, Tiger?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I’m feeling <em>fucking cheated,</em> Sir... I rage inside my own head. And I doubt assassins are assigned <em>guardian angels!</em></p><p> </p><p><em>Guardian demons, then. Whatever, </em>you say, rolling your eyes.</p><p><em>What would happen if you expressed alllll those angry things you want to tell me</em>? you say with a pout.</p><p> </p><p>You’d know how <em>I feel</em>, I say in a silent snarl.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Aaaand?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I want to scream as I stare at my internalized you/hallucination/whatever the fuck.</p><p>I want to <em>fucking scream</em> everything I’m feeling right in your <em>beautiful face</em>.</p><p> </p><p><em>Fascinating,</em> you say, sounding bored. <em>And then I’d know, wouldn’t I.</em></p><p> </p><p>Know what! I rage at you silently. What the fuck would you know, Jim?!</p><p> </p><p><em>Don’t be so fucking melodramatic, darling!</em> you snap. <em>And for god's sake, don’t disappoint me! After all this effort, all this build-up!! What. Would. I. Know. Moran.</em></p><p>Your eyes have gone impossibly dark and I stare at you, transfixed as always.</p><p> </p><p>Realization dawns on me, and I curse silently.</p><p> </p><p><em>What was that, darling?</em> you drawl, but your eyes narrow.</p><p> </p><p>That I didn’t fucking mean it! I shout at you. I still cared about my pleasure the most, alright?? Is that what you want to hear?!</p><p> </p><p>You <em>tsk</em> sadly as you look at your nails.</p><p><em>Just like a man...</em> you say sadly, and then you bring your face right up to mine.</p><p>
  <em>But I don’t want just a man, honey... if that’s what you thought you’re dead wrong. Or wrong, and then dead. Who knows. I just get so bored, Tiger...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>You sound threatening but strangely wistful. I find my frustration slowly dissipating.</p><p>So... what do you want, Jim?</p><p> </p><p><em>That’s the question, isn’t it. The real question, Sebbie...</em> you whisper.</p><p>
  <em>And when you figure that out...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>You move in to kiss me and I close my eyes. But nothing happens and when I open my eyes, you’re gone. And I’m still hanging in my restraints, trembling...</p><p>barely able to hold myself up...</p><p>smeared in blood, sweat and semen...</p><p>Feeling pushed so beyond my limits, that there’s no longer a map to get back.</p><p>Oh…</p><p>Maybe... I’m not supposed to get back.</p><p> </p><p><em>Good...</em> I hear your whisper in my mind, sultry and mocking and so very Jim...</p><p> </p><p>Maybe I’m - supposed to go somewhere new...</p><p> </p><p><em>Verrry go-o-od</em>, you prompt, your voice a silky purr.</p><p> </p><p>The real question. What you want.</p><p>...</p><p>Not just a man.</p><p>More than a man.</p><p>...</p><p>A Tiger.</p><p>But not just that.</p><p>...</p><p><em>Your</em> Tiger.</p><p>One that cares more for your desires than his own...</p><p>Ferocious to all threats, loyal to the death, and <em>utterly</em> your creature.</p><p> </p><p>I close my eyes let out a shaky breath.</p><p>I’m almost there, aren’t I. Just one little step to take off a cliff, into territory unlike anywhere I've ever been... wherever <em>you</em> deign to take me.</p><p>A dark thrill moves through me.</p><p>The army sure as fuck couldn’t bring me to such a place -</p><p>This obsidian realm that beckons me closer...</p><p>This realm of jet-black wings and gleaming chains...</p><p>Only <em>you</em> could draw me here... my cruel, dark King...</p><p>I inhale deeply, straighten my shoulders, and open my eyes.</p><p>And wait for you to welcome <em>your Tiger</em> past the threshold - when he is found worthy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I wait ten minutes. That should be sufficient.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then I enter again. And I see your face.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I stare at you. It seems almost absurd now that I was so angry...</p><p>As if you were a mere human to get angry at.</p><p>“Sir...” I say in a low voice, bowing my head slightly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Good*. I *am* a genius.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was a risk... how far over the edge can I push you? Each time I think I've gone as far as I can go, I decide to nudge you just a liiiiitle bit further, just to see if I can... like a cat playing with a mouse. But you're not a mouse... you're a Tiger.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Right. *Now* I should really give you your reward. Really really.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Just let me get a bit more comfortable...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I take off my jacket, then my tie. Undo my cufflinks, place them on the sideboard, unbutton my shirt, one by one... take it off, hang it over the chair with the jacket. It's probably ruined, but that doesn't mean that I will just throw it onto the floor like some plebeian. I will need to instruct you in this...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I take off my vest, then undo my zipper, pull off my trousers, pants, and socks. They all go onto the chair as well.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Naked, I stand before you. Nothing you haven't seen before, but you do seem terribly appreciative - good.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Again, I kneel onto the bed, take your cock in my mouth. Slow, steady movements... until I feel you are getting to the edge again, and then I go hard and fast.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Previously it was so hot to see you sucking my cock... I wanted to come so much, it hurt to stop myself.</p><p>Now - I’m almost afraid to. I feel like I’m being sucked by a dark entity, the closest thing to a god I’ve ever known. Who do I think I am to come in your mouth?</p><p>You’re bestowing the greatest honour upon me with your attention...</p><p>So if you deem me worthy, only then could I dream of such a thing.</p><p> </p><p>God... you’ve got me well trained, Jim Moriarty, I think to myself - it’s the last coherent thought in my mind, as you speed up and my head falls back and I begin to moan low in my throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh - my - fucking - god -“ I gasp as ecstasy hovers in my body for a moment like a predatory thing, before crashing through me, burning me, consuming me, devouring me -</p><p>Oh god -</p><p>
  <em>JIM –</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It's different now... I can feel it. Where earlier you were so keen on getting your orgasm (and quite rightly so, after having been subjected to my most expert and exquisite ministrations), now, finally, you are completely surrendered. You are happy to be brought to climax, but only if that's what I desire, and if it isn't, you won't mind - you will wait until the end of time if I want you to.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Quite, *quite* amazing. I know I'm a master manipulator; using words, personas, ideas, promises, illusions, dreams, sex, threats, fear... but I've never gone so intensely deep with someone, and I didn't know it would work - but it did. It very much did.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In this moment, I could order you to go to the roof and jump off, and you would.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>And for that, my Sebastian, you deserve a magnificent orgasm.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>Ohh</em>...</p><p> </p><p>Tongues of flame...</p><p> </p><p>dying star inferno...</p><p> </p><p>Tiger... <em>reborn</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Yours,“ I gasp as I writhe and twist in my restraints. “Fucking – <em>yours</em> -“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A man gasping he's mine during his orgasm. A man tied up and bleeding, my marks all over him, a permanent imprint on his back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have achieved some amazing things in my life, but this is a grand prize indeed...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I swallow you up; lick and suck until you are whimpering and squirming, and then, finally, I let you go. Completely spent. Covered in tears, sweat, blood.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mine.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>OhmygodJimohmygod-</p><p>I thought because I knew you intimately when we were teenagers that I knew the real you - and the rest was a front. Armour.</p><p> </p><p>But you were right. You’re <em>both</em> - Jim Moriarty.</p><p> </p><p>Because Jim had a dark, sadistic side - but in Moriarty’s expert hands, it blossomed into a poison garden, teeming with lethal plants and night-blooming flowers.</p><p> </p><p>I have always loved Jim.</p><p>But now I have fallen so fucking hard for Moriarty, I can barely think straight. Or maybe that’s from the most <em>epic</em> blow job I’ve ever had...</p><p>I gasp for breath as I hang from the restraints, trying to hold myself up and failing.</p><p>“Oh... god...” I pant. “Oh... fuck...”</p><p>Oh... good. You’re sure to dazzle him with your enchanting, erudite pillow talk, Moran...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I release you from your shackles - red angry lines surround your wrists.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Right, Moriarty - you've caught and tamed yourself a Tiger. Time to take care of him...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Can you sit?" I help you up, carefully. You wince a bit - of course, everything must hurt, not least your shoulders.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Come along..." I put my arm around you, help you to the bathroom, where I start the shower - not boiling hot as I usually like it; just a little over lukewarm. I lead you under the flow of water, get a soft sponge and shower gel and start washing you, carefully rinsing your wounds, making sure they're all clean and no dirt or ashes remains in them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I carefully pat you dry with a fluffy towel. Most of the wounds are shallow and have already stopped bleeding, the others will shortly - no need for bandaging, but I get the first-aid kit out anyway, to put salve on the burns; then give you a glass of water, tell you to down it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You let yourself be ministered to, barely able to stand up; exhausted now your ordeal is over.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>After you're clean and balsamed I lead you to the spare bedroom - I don't know why I have a spare bedroom, it's not like I ever have anyone over, but the decorator seemed to think it was the thing to do; and I do occasionally sleep in there when I have bad insomnia. Sometimes the change of environment helps.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I pull back the covers, help you in. "You'll probably want to sleep on your side..." I observe. Not that there's any part of you that's not damaged.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When you're settled, I pull the duvet over you. It's thick but light, so it shouldn’t hurt, and you need to keep warm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Sleep now, Tiger. You've earned it."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I’m sure I’ll look back with wonder at the care you gave me... the scrutiny you gave my wounds, the unwavering focus, the firm but gentle touch...</p><p>but there’s only one thing on my mind now.</p><p> </p><p>“Where are you sleeping?” I mumble, eyes half closed. “I haven’t checked the place for security...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I chuckle. So dutiful, even now...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s the safest place we could be, I assure you. I’m not sleeping yet. I’ll wake you in a few hours for some food - you’ll need to get your strength back. But now, just sleep.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I turn off the light and leave the room, head to my office to have a look at what’s been happening while we were otherwise occupied.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My Albanian slang isn’t quite up to scratch, but it appears that as expected, they are more occupied with fighting over Vjosa’s succession than with worrying about who did it or taking revenge. Three roughly equally powerful factions means a good deal of fighting, which leaves me free to gently take what I wanted to; and will leave them a good deal weaker when they’ve decided. And if that happens too soon, I can always nudge things a bit.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>After three hours I pull myself off the laptop and head to the kitchen. I don’t usually cook - I eat out and regularly get some sandwiches and salads for when I don’t. I think you’ll want something more substantial though, so I phone a nearby French restaurant for chateaubriand with trappings, pick it up, then go to wake you up with an espresso and a pint of water.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s blood on these sheets as well now - it’s a messy business, the keeping of Tigers.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I wake up with a start - raising myself up to my elbow and then groaning at the effort.</p><p>“What the fuck happened?” I mutter, and then images begin to cascade through my mind.</p><p>I slump back slightly. “Jesus... if you have any armies to take on today, I’m not your man...”</p><p>Except I am. Moriarty’s man. <em>Your Tiger.</em></p><p>A more permanent significant bond than most marriages. Those can end, or carry on half-arsed and pointless.</p><p><em>This</em> doesn’t end until my life does - my life for Jim’s, or a lifetime in Jim’s service.</p><p>“But I’ll feel better after a shower and some coffee...”</p><p>Gingerly I reach out for the espresso, but you hand me the bottle of water instead. I look at the cup longingly, but uncap it and dutifully drink. It feels like standing under a cold clear waterfall... as water pours into me, I feel my body replenishing.</p><p>I swallow and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.</p><p>“Thank you...” I say, reaching for the cup.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"I don't think you should have a shower straightaway again; it may re-open some of the wounds," I say, looking at you critically.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Here, this should fit you." I hand you an oversized t-shirt that I got for one of my personas. It's huge on me, so should be loose even on you. You're quite narrow around the hips, so I got some biggish shorts that ought to fit as well.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Come - mustn't let the chateaubriand get cold. If you finish another pint of water, you can have some wine."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>“Chateaubriand?“</em> I gape at you.</p><p>“Jesus... alright. Let’s have at it.”</p><p>Wearing your t-shirt and shorts, I move slowly towards the door and head for the stairs. I realize how positively ravenous I feel. Not that I’m into posh food - far from it. It makes me think of social events growing up or - god help me - the dining room at my father’s manor.</p><p>I suppress a shudder. But I’m as far from my background as I could possibly get at this moment - an employee to a criminal mastermind... who ties him up, whips him, and fucks him. Whose initial is carved into his back as a mark of possession. Daddy would be so proud...</p><p>My skin suddenly feels like it’s almost glowing with pleasure.</p><p> </p><p>As I walk down the stairs, I feel like I’m a thousand years old. God only knows how long it will take me to heal from your attention... before we can do it again.</p><p>But for the moment at least, my appetite for you is replaced by another one - the thought of red meat has my mouth watering.</p><p>At the bottom of the stairs I hold the railing for a moment and glance back at you - was that a look of concern on your face for a second?</p><p>I grin at you reassuringly. “Ready to replace some of that blood you took, Sir.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Excellent - after you," I gesture into the dining room where the food is sitting in covered dishes and I've laid the table. A bottle of red wine is breathing next to a large jug of water.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Beef, roast potatoes, greens, mushroom sauce - it smells gorgeous. I serve us both and pour you a large glass of water and myself a smaller one and one of wine. You look at me challengingly and knock back the water in one go. I smile, pour you some wine, then make a show of looking at it against the light, swirling it while keeping the glass on the table and scrutinizing it intensely, then quickly lifting it and sticking my nose in the glass, having a sip, moving it around my mouth, all with a deadly serious expression.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Upon entering the dining room and being hit by a wall of succulent smells, I feel a wave of devastating hunger followed by dizziness and near-nausea. But when I sit down, I’m back to hunger - I would snatch up the beef off the plate and start gnawing through it, but I hardly want to make that impression.</p><p>After I drink yet another glass of water, you make a show of holding off on giving me wine. Again, it takes some discipline to stop myself from grabbing it and guzzling it down.</p><p>“If you’re busy assessing the wine, I’m fine with beer,” I say with a smirk.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Well. So much for *me* reminiscing. I thought you might remember my spiel at the restaurant, and laugh. But of course you don't. Why would you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I shove the glass in your direction, a bit more forceful than I'd planned. Some wine spills onto the tablecloth. Damn it - first you ruin my sheets, now my tablecloth -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Annoyed, I spear my beef, cut off a piece, stuff it into my mouth.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I stop the wine glass from teetering, and watch as it splashes onto the tablecloth. When I look up perplexed, there’s a magnificent scowl on your face as you chew.</p><p>OK... what’s with the attitude, Jim??</p><p> </p><p>I take a sip of the wine. Fuuuck... not as good as beer or whisky, but alcohol feels so good right now, I’m momentarily unbothered by your sudden mood swing.</p><p>I cut into a piece of beef and pop it into my mouth.</p><p>“God... so good,” I groan. I fork up some potatoes and dip them into mushroom sauce. Adding them to the mouth-wateringly good beef, my eyelids flutter shut as I chew. “I don’t think food has ever tasted <em>so fucking good</em>...” I breathe.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Yes, we can do without the running commentary," I say, shortly. The food *is* good, but I don't need to know every thought that enters your head. You are awfully loquacious. Maybe not so suitable as a bodyguard after all.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You raise an eyebrow, but shut up and enjoy your food in silence.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When I've had my fill, I reach for a printout, slide it over the table to you. "This is your next assignment, an assassination in Paris. No rush; make sure you're fully recovered. Let Yannick know if you have any questions."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I get up from the table. "There will be a car at the corner with New Bond Street in fifteen minutes."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jesus... you were never so moody before. Short-tempered on occasion, yes - but not <em>cranky</em>.</p><p>Well, god knows what you've been through for twelve years...</p><p>(Without someone to love you.)</p><p>Shut up, Moran.</p><p>(Without someone to kiss it all better.)</p><p>Shut <em>the fuck up</em>, Moran!</p><p>But I feel strangely elated at the thought that there's no one I need to feel threatened by, or compete with your attention for - who would put up with your abrasive attitude and hardcore appetites? A meek, simpering masochist? You'd have them for breakfast, and their body would be dumped in a river by nightfall.</p><p> </p><p>As I amuse myself with this thought, I see a piece of paper pushed towards me.</p><p>Paris? Huh. I wish I didn't have to go away from you so soon.</p><p><em>Oh</em>. I'm leaving in <em>15 minutes?</em></p><p>So much for pillow talk... I nod and keep eating.</p><p>I feel like I've had cold water splashed over me. But if this is how you want it, then - better I get used to it now than have a honeymoon period and then be cast out. I think.</p><p>Although honeymoon period sounds good...</p><p> </p><p>Get <em>over yourself</em>, Moran. You're an employee to him. Not the average employee, true. He's put his mark of ownership on you; that implies a certain level of trust and... if not affection, then... what? Pleasure in your company?</p><p>Then why the fuck is he kicking me out?</p><p> </p><p>Now I'm feeling huffy... but I just went through hell (and then heaven) to learn that <em>my</em> feelings don't matter and it's <em>your</em> desires that are the priority - fine.</p><p>I ignore the pang of disappointment (pain), push the clean plate away.</p><p>"Well thank you for your hospitality, Sir," I say, finishing my water. "My apologies for the blood on the sheets... I didn't want to worry you, but I was attacked while I was here. By someone bloodthirsty and dangerous, but nothing for you to worry about - I'll take care of everything."</p><p>I look at you meaningfully, and push off from the table. I head towards the door, humming to myself. Well, I do entrances and exits well - that's something. And I already know I've made an impression on you, based on the impressions you made on <em>me</em> last night. I'm already wondering when our next rendezvous will be... and how on earth you're going to follow up an encounter like that.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I grin at that. "Don't worry - I'm used to blood on the sheets."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not usually my sheets, but oh well. The spare mattress should be fine, and I'll order a new one for the main bed. Maybe be a bit less bloody next time, Moriarty...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But this was to make a statement. And I think it's been made.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want to tell you to take it easy for a couple of days. Drink lots of water. Put antibiotic cream on the burns, not just aftersun or something.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fuck's sake Jim. He's a soldier. He knows how to treat wounds. Stop mollycoddling him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Now get rid of him before you decide he needs to stay the night and oh look, there's only one clean bed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I head out the door to the living room as you walk to the bedroom to get your clothes.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>At your reference to blood on the sheets, I feel a flare of jealousy - so unlike me, it catches me off guard. If I’m expected to be monogamous, what about you??</p><p>Somehow I know better than to bring that up...</p><p>As I return to the bedroom to get dressed, I remind myself that you’re not going to find <em>anyone</em> out there like me. After this evening - how could anyone even compare?</p><p>I look at myself in the mirror, eyes widening at the marks you’ve left on my body. Christ, you really didn’t hold back, did you...</p><p>The thought of anyone else going through <em>this</em> level of torture, and being as hot, lethal, charming, deadly attractive as yours truly... It’s <em>laughable</em>. And that’s not ego talking - that’s facts. Well, maybe <em>some</em> ego...</p><p>I chuckle to myself as I carefully get dressed. I look in the mirror again when I’m done, eyes glinting.</p><p>What the fuck would you want with a mere man when you have a Tiger?</p><p>I swagger out of the room, and return to the living room. You’re sitting on the sofa, staring at some papers.</p><p>“Thanks again for dinner,” I murmur. “If you need anything at all, you know where to find me. I’ll be off now, Sir...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I'm poring over the contract - Tsybulenko is a tricksy fucker, well known for putting dodgy clauses in that end up biting you in the arse.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh - are you still here? Stating the bleeding obvious, again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"If you start listing everything I *know*, you have your work cut out for you. Rest assured I did not suffer sudden amnesia.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Also, gratitude is meaningless. It is only the expectation of further favours."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I imagine shaking my head at you or rolling my eyes wouldn’t be the best way to start out this new dynamic of ours.</p><p>But <em>holy fuck</em>, you’re a rude little shit.</p><p>God... you really have suffered without your Tiger, haven’t you, honey...</p><p>I stifle a smile, and nod at you.</p><p>“Noted, Sir. I’ll buy a notebook on my way home for all the sage advice...” I grin at you, and leave.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Welcome Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>I hear the grin in your voice - well, at least you're happy. Not many people would be... you're a special specimen, Moran.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I concentrate on my contracts again.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Tsybulenko is a major player, and one that I really want to get involved with, but it's hard to get a grip on him - he's exceedingly slippery, working under aliases and via third parties, limited companies here and nameless mercenaries there. He's got a web that covers much of Europe, and extends outwards... I try to visualize it, compare it to my own web, but the superimposed images are hard to keep straight even for me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I try to draw it, but run into the limits of two-dimensional paper. Frustrated, I try to fold the paper, and that gives me an idea - in films you always see people making webs with string... on a wall, sometimes even involving an entire room - I could put Ukraine on *that* wall, London *there*, Poland... Germany... then go up and down and across the room - I can picture it in my head.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I go outside - it's bright, so it's day, so the shops will be open - get a box with twelve colours of yarn, a large bag of clothes pegs, and get to work with my printer, markers, and highlighters, putting maps on the walls, pictures, names, connecting them with colour-coded string -</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My bladder warns me that if I don't go to the bathroom *now*, it will soil my trousers and the silk carpet. With a scowl, I look around - how long have I been here? It's dark again, I've switched on the light -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As I head to the bathroom, my other organs become aware that I'm taking requests and all pipe up - I'm extremely thirsty, should have some food, some coffee - god it's annoying, these constant demands.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When I've put coffee in the espresso machine and reach to press the button, I hesitate. How long has it been since I slept?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I resent sleep as a massive time sink, but I am aware that I do function better with it… and I was struggling making the yellow thread connect to the black, though I know it must.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With a sigh, I turn away from the machine, have a sandwich and some orange squash instead, and head to the bedroom.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh – oh yes. Right.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sebastian.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Heh. Wow. That was –</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something else.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I look at the bed – blood, some grey streaks from the ash, handcuffs hanging from the headboard, my knife still with your blood on it lying on the sheets.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ll have to get a new mattress, and this lot can go in the incinerator.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The pillow doesn’t have much blood – most of the stains there are from tears. I pick it up and sniff it – a strong cocktail of salt and androstadienone. It gives me a funny feeling down below.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I take the pillow to the spare bedroom, where I change the bottom sheet, turn the duvet round – good enough.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cuddling the pillow, I am asleep within seconds.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Back in my flat, I don't feel as restless as I did before - <em>that</em>.</p><p>I'm owned now - there's a sense of finality to it that gives me a strange sense of - something like - inner peace?</p><p>I laugh loudly at that. Yeah right, Moran...</p><p>But I do feel less like jumping out of my skin.</p><p>Well that makes sense... everything you did to this skin, I don't want to forget.</p><p> </p><p>Gingerly, I get into bed and slide the covers over me - on my bedside table are a beer and a bottle of water. I take a swig of beer, light up a cigarette.</p><p>And I think about everything that happened... everything you <em>did</em>.</p><p>My fingers trail over areas of my skin as I remember - wincing, groaning softly. But it's almost like feeling your touch again... almost.</p><p>I take a drag from my cigarette, staring up at the ceiling - my hand hangs off the bed, flicking ash into the ashtray.</p><p> </p><p>Here on my own, safe in my flat, I can think about - that time in my life when you were - <em>him</em>. My Jim.</p><p>Just for a moment... before it gets too dangerous to go any further.</p><p>I can do this...</p><p>It's fine...</p><p>The tears that sting my eyes don't count if there's no one here to see them.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>In the following days, I create a magnificent three-dimensional colour-coded web for Tsybulenko, on which I can superimpose my mind map and make comparisons. I'm not sure how many days have passed - I've had some sleeps. Two? Three?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I need to go out for food again. Annoying.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As I'm crunching through a salad, I look through my emails.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wonder how you're doing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I mean - I wonder how things are healing. How the M looks.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Should I get you over?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The living room is a bit uninhabitable, but I'm sure you're not particularly interested in sitting on the sofa and watching Frasier.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I may. I will. Once I've figured out how to deal with Viktor.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I check in with Yannick, and he confirms - no jobs until I’ve recovered from my ‘injury’, and then I’ll be heading to Paris.</p><p>I’m glad I don’t have to rush off right away - but after two days, I’m so bored at the sight of my four walls... and London itself feels like a fucking prison. I’ve already been here for *months*, and it’s high time I escape.</p><p>Besides, I can read and watch films all I like, but in the end I’ll just start thinking about you.</p><p>Fuck that. I’d rather be on the move.</p><p> </p><p>As I pack, I send a text to Yannick: <em>I love Paris in the springtime</em>.</p><p>Flight information is sent to me within thirty minutes.</p><p>I’m on a plane that afternoon.</p><p>When I leave the airport, I breathe in the air and smile.</p><p>Lovely day for a murder...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I love the rush when things click into place. When you follow the right path in the mind map, and you see that yes, *that* fits, and *that*, and *that*; and it stands up to challenging questions, and you know that you're *on* it, that you have everything firmly in hand, that you can see exactly what will happen if you pull *that* string and nudge *that* corner...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I wake up on the floor. I must have passed out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Neglected my body until it had had enough. *So* demanding.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I have food and drink and though I try to argue that being passed out on the carpet counts as a nap, the more rational part of me insists that I will think much better after some actual sleep in a real bed.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I've got a new mattress and sheets, but the cuffs are still dangling from the headboard. They make me smile.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I have a late dinner at a little cafe - nothing touristy or ostentatious. A place the locals would know.</p><p>I think back on my day - after I checked into the modest hotel, I scoped out the location of the target, based on the intel I received. The mark will be arriving for work by 10 the next day - and I’ll be waiting on the roof for him.</p><p>The last time I had a sniper job, I was with you -</p><p>And then -</p><p>Don’t think of that, I tell myself firmly.</p><p> </p><p>I’m distracted by a comely young woman passing by and giving me a smouldering smile.</p><p>I smile back rakishly before I remember- shit.</p><p>I pull my phone out to look at the screen. When I glance up, she smiles over her shoulder before disappearing into a bookshop.</p><p> </p><p>I imagine the next steps so clearly - I go into the bookshop after her.</p><p>We strike up a flirtatious conversation - <em>en français</em>.</p><p>She invites me out for a drink.</p><p>And then another drink at her flat.</p><p>Which she neglects to give me, because her hands are busy with something else.</p><p>And her lips.</p><p>And her legs, wrapped around me.</p><p> </p><p>I feel myself grow flushed. Fuck - I’m not used to holding back. When I’m on a mission, and there are no opportunities - yes, I have to make do without it.</p><p>But on my own time? Not having sex whenever the hell I want is an <em>alien state</em>.</p><p>So is being attached to a man who has me on a fucking string. I can’t contact him.</p><p>I can’t suggest we get together. I’m at <em>his</em> beck and call.</p><p>No. Not a fucking string - a <em>leash</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The image of me and this woman clasped together and humping spectacularly is slowly replaced by me naked at your feet. With a collar. Being yanked forward by a leash to suck your cock, as you stare down at me with those impossibly dark eyes.</p><p>I grow painfully hard in a second, and squirm in my seat. I drop the cloth napkin in my lap, and throw back the rest of my beer.</p><p>I don’t know if the young lady has a plan in mind when she exits the bookshop - either way, I’m not there to find out.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When I meet with Tsybulenko, Uthman and Bernie accompany me. I realize as soon as I walk in - that's *not* Viktor Tsybulenko.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fine... so I'll have to work out what this means. Is he afraid it is a trap, and sending one of his less useful men to walk into it? Is he trying to insult me by not deigning to come himself? Or is he trying to find out if I'm as smart and lethal as they say I am?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Either way, he'll have a wire on the guy, or in the room.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You're not Viktor," I state. Make the tiniest gesture. Bernie shoots the right bodyguard, Uthman the left, as I reach for my gun to shoot wannabe Viktor. He reaches inside his own jacket, but too late - I do hope he was not an essential cog in Tsybulenko's empire.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This was suspiciously easy - did Viktor not expect this response? I stand in a corner, while the two guys check the room, then the adjacent bedroom, then the corridor. It all looks empty.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We leave the hotel, the lads keeping an eye out for anyone suspicious, but it appears to be clear.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So what was this? A message? A test?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I check my phone, but no texts.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The hit is pretty standard. Prep. Wait. Kill.</p><p>The usual evasive tactics after, just in case.</p><p>I’m back in my hotel room by late morning, feeling restless.</p><p>My flight back is in the evening. But the thought of returning to London to be restless in my flat doesn’t appeal.</p><p>It makes me feel bone-weary, actually.</p><p>And I could use a fucking day away after all the emotional tumult since you came back into my life.</p><p>I send a text to Yannick; tell him I’m changing the flight to tomorrow.</p><p>He of course asks for coded confirmation that everything’s alright.</p><p>I tell him I’m fine but feeling off and not up to taking a flight. Then I head to the lift, whistling <em>La Vie En Rose.</em></p><p> </p><p>I find myself wandering the narrow streets in the Left Bank until I end up at Shakespeare and Company. I stare up at the sign, feeling light-hearted for the first time in as far back as I can remember.</p><p>I wander through the shop, running my hands over the books. I first saw this place on a weekend getaway from Oxford with guys from my college, since I’d already decided never to stay at my father’s house again.</p><p>The next time I saw it was on my first leave from the SAS - during a debauched week of drinking, gambling, and screwing everything that sashayed towards me.</p><p>And now I’m seeing it at the beginning of my employment with you. This shop is like an archaeological dig through the eras of my adult life.</p><p>After perusing the shelves for close to an hour, I choose a spy novel set in the Second World War. I’ll find a historical site where I can read, then eat dinner, and watch the sun set.</p><p>An image pops into my mind of wandering the streets with you. Like that would ever happen... the boy I knew may be buried in you somewhere, but he’s not accessible to me - and certainly not prone to fly away with me for a romantic getaway to Paris.</p><p>I scoff at myself, then head towards the front to pay for my book. I slow down as I see a book on quantum physics. Remembering you talking dreamily about the magic of physics when you were a boy, I gently hold it open as I scan the first page. Well, I can’t even understand the introduction. That’s promising, isn’t it?</p><p>I buy it, then wonder what the fuck I was thinking on the way home. What the hell am I going to do with it? Wrap it in shiny paper and give it to you the next time you fancy a bloody, violent fuck?</p><p> </p><p>I leave it on a bench for the next physics aficionado who passes by. Then I head back, grab it, and stalk away cursing my idiocy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I'm walking into a Sainsbury's when I feel the eyes upon me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh, is that the plan? Follow me home? And then? What can you do to me at home that you couldn't have in the hotel, Viktor?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Are you after my stuff? My papers, my laptop? Do you think they will tell you what I won't?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They probably will... but I won't take you home, darling.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I get some groceries - sandwiches, salads, chocolate, the basics - and head to the tube station. I get onto the Piccadilly Line, then jump out at the last minute when the doors close.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The oldest trick in the book - so old that there's a fresh pair of eyes upon me the moment I've exited the tube station.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Damn. He's really invested in this.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After my leisurely afternoon reading in a park, my stomach starts rumbling. I find a cafe to have an early dinner. Partway through, I start feeling a different sensation in my stomach - a strange fluttering before my stomach seems to open up into an empty pit...</p><p><em>I need to head back</em>, I hear myself think.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>Why would I need to return? It’s not like you don’t have security all around you.</p><p>The feeling doesn’t dissipate, only growing more insistent.</p><p>The flirtatious waitress with fluttering eyelashes is shocked when I throw some francs at the table and leave my half-finished meal.</p><p>The pickpocket who attempts to ‘bump’ into me is even more surprised when I pitch him into the gutter without a backward glance.</p><p>I’m in a taxi a minute later. At the hotel, I grab my things and change my flight plans - again - before heading back to the taxi waiting to take me to the airport.</p><p>From the backseat I text Yannick to let him know I’m feeling better and I’ll be home at the original time. I hesitate before asking if everything is alright with the Boss.</p><p>He gives his usual terse reply - <em>Yes. Why.</em></p><p><em>Odd feeling - or something I ate.</em> I text back. <em>You know where to find me.</em></p><p>No response. None needed. No news is good news. I hope.</p><p>I have a strange feeling all the way to the airport, and at the gate as I wait to board. At least I don’t have to wait too long... and the flight is a short one.</p><p>I would have gone mental if something was wrong and I was away from... London.</p><p>In the taxi ride back, my hands are bunched into fists as I stare out the window. The odd feeling doesn’t stop.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I can throw off a tail, surely.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>However, these guys are good. It takes me a very busy department store and a lifted coat and beanie to finally shake them. I take a few more detours until I'm finally sure.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When I get to my apartment, I realize it was all a ruse to keep me away from home. Someone's broken in. Very skilfully, picking the lock rather than forcing it, but it's plain to see - the door isn't locked, just closed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And what's more – he’s still inside.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When the cabbie drops me off, I drop my rucksack onto my floor. I stare off for one moment before I gather weapons and head out again - to my motorcycle, which should get me there faster if I avoid certain streets.</p><p> </p><p>The ride there is a blur... when I arrive at your building, I stare up at the windows, feeling the first pang of self-doubt. I can’t just knock on your door... What if it’s nothing?</p><p>What if you’re in your pyjamas? (Do you even wear pyjamas?)</p><p>What if you’re in the bath? (Do you enjoy baths?)</p><p>What if one of your enemies has a knife at your throat?</p><p>...</p><p>I’ve survived by my hyper-awareness of danger for far too long to ignore this feeling...</p><p>I enter through the back of the building, doing what I do best and avoiding the concierge.</p><p>The coded lift to the penthouse presents no difficulty.</p><p>Soon enough I find myself in the hallway outside your door.</p><p> </p><p>This is it, soldier...</p><p>If I’m wrong, you’ll be furious at my presumptions... and I may never see you again.</p><p>But if I’m right...</p><p> </p><p>I pull a listening device from my pocket, slip it into my ear, and creep towards the door.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I walk in, close the door behind me, hang up my coat, walk to the living room.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A stout man is sitting in my armchair.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Viktor," I say in Russian. "You should have let me know you were coming. I'd have put on the kettle."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Very appropriate," he replies in accented but fine English. "I have to speak the language of your oppressors as well, as I don't know Irish."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm momentarily amused by the thought of the man in front of me coming out with Gaeilge with a Slavic accent - that would have surprised me even more than him having found and entering my house, which is *supposed* to be safe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He gestures at my web. "Should I report you for stalking? I'm impressed - though you got Austria wrong. I've never been there."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"The white threads are future prospects," I reply in English. "If the Czech business keeps expanding, you're going to have to get Vienna involved, probably in the next eight months."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He nods. "Ah yes, that makes sense... if you make another one of these, do ask me for a better picture. I look fat in that one. Also, if you were not a homosexual, I would have to kill you for having that picture of my daughter."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"The photographer was not a homosexual. Your daughter is very beautiful." I pour two whiskies, hand him one. He knocks it back and I pour him some more.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"My daughter is completely responsible for my bald head," he responds. "You are lucky you do not have children, James."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's rubbing in the things he knows about me. *Very* worrying. I rush through options in my mind; where the leak could be - cybersecurity? One of my people? Sloppiness on my part?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Why do you come in where I am?" he asks. "You have a good thing, James. You don't want to extend your arm where you cannot reach - you may dislocate your shoulder."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hear something behind me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I wasn't aware I was holding open house today. Do put your gun away, Moran. Viktor and I are just talking."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I raise my eyebrows at you, and slowly put my gun away. I’m sure I can get to it more quickly than Viktor.</p><p>Did he actually break in here without security? I didn’t see any sign of anyone on the street... or on this floor.</p><p>Do I need to check the rest of the penthouse? The roof? <em>Other floors?</em></p><p>I should - but I feel extremely apprehensive about leaving you in this man’s company... I stare at him, trying to suss him out as he’s talking to you.</p><p> </p><p>There’s something threatening about him, yes... I’m aching to take out my gun again, but countermanding your order would be like moving through a force field. When did that happen?? Oh, right... <em>that night</em>.</p><p>You left your mark in more ways than one, Jim Moriarty.</p><p>Fine. I’ll just wait and see what you want. I glower as I listen in on the polite conversation between adversaries where each word gleams like a sharp knife between them...</p><p> </p><p>Any time now, Jim...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Viktor is actually a very entertaining conversation partner. He's got a sharp mind and cutting wit. I'm having a good time, I realize. Huh.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It also has something to do with your presence. I enjoy showing off my intelligence to you - what the fuck is up with that? Like you don't know I'm smart? Why do I feel I have to prove myself to - an employee?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's marvellous to watch you, while looking like I'm not - you're on a wire trigger, watching every move Viktor makes, as well as the window, and the door, and me, and listening out - if you were a cat, I'd see your ears swivelling.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Viktor and I are battling to the hilt whilst leaning back in our armchairs and lazily bantering. He's good, but I'm better. I manage to get what I wanted in the first place, while making it look like I'm conceding.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We part on good terms - he'll have to die at some point, but at the moment it's good to have him right where I can see him. He praises my whiskey and I promise to send a bottle to his home address - reminding him that he may have found my apartment, but I've known where he lives all along, as well as his precious daughter.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When the door closes behind him, I do not breathe a sigh of relief and relaxation, because I have another intruder to deal with.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I turn to where you are standing right behind me - in case Viktor got homicidal urges in the hallway, I suspect.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Go home, get the stuff you can't live without. There will be a car at 3 am. You'll have to change cars a few times, so don't bring too much - it will be furnished, so only weapons and personal stuff."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Finally Viktor leaves. Took him long enough...</p><p>I did not see the evening going like this - I suspected there would be blood spilled on your floor by now and at least one body to dispose of.</p><p>I wait for you to unleash a tirade upon me, but once again things don’t go as I expect this evening...</p><p>Get my stuff? Where am I going that’s furnished?</p><p>I keep my face carefully neutral, and nod at you. I hesitate at the door and manage to keep myself from asking if you’ll be safe.</p><p>He knows enough to call security, I tell myself firmly. For fuck’s sake, he’s not a scared teenager.</p><p>Anymore...</p><p> </p><p>On the motorcycle ride home, I feel torn up about not having been there for you when you <em>were</em>.</p><p>But that wasn’t by fucking choice, was it.</p><p> </p><p>By the time I get home, I’m angry and frustrated. Mostly with myself. I need to let this go, I need to <em>fucking let this go</em>, or it’s going to bleed into my working relationship with you, and drive me fucking mad.</p><p>“Just <em>drop it</em>, already... and grow the fuck up, Moran,” I mutter as I throw things together that I don’t want to go without. Clothes and toiletries. Weapons and equipment for my professional life. Books for my personal life, such as it is. And a handful of mementos from a life long gone.</p><p> </p><p>When the car arrives, I feel lighter.</p><p>I don’t know when I’ll be back...</p><p>But it feels like a door has closed.</p><p>I don’t know what waits for me behind the next door... but if you’ve chosen it, as far as I’m concerned it’s the only door worth opening.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I've had my eye on this place in Knightsbridge for a while - it's spacious and has the most amazing hardwood floor. The furnishings are not to my liking, and they're part of the deal, so I've been wavering, but my hand's been forced, so ugly silver velvet sofas and faux-vintage carpets it is. At least the art was negotiable.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's got good views, and suitable privacy - if I can keep it out of sight of Ukrainian crime lords, that is. I really will have to work out how he found out, and until I do, no one knows of this place except Steve and you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm hanging my suits in the walk-in wardrobe when I hear the lift ding, and Steve's voice. I walk out, see you and Steve with a suitcase each. I point down the hall. "Your bedroom is through there. I do apologize for the absolutely ghastly interior decorating; I didn't have time to have it done up. Tell me what style you want and I'll order it."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I meet Steve in a car park, and he escorts me to a residential building, and up to a flat. Steve is all business, which is good - and seems more likeable than Yannick. He takes my suitcase, leaving me my rifle case and rucksack.</p><p>No word on what this place is, or what my assignment will be. But I've figured out not to ask questions by now...</p><p> </p><p>We enter and a moment later you appear. My heart skips a beat... like I’m a smitten schoolboy.</p><p>Fuck. Good work moving on, Moran... just stellar.</p><p>Bedroom?</p><p>
  <em>Style?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I blink at this, and Steve hands me my suitcase. He gestures at me to take my stuff down the hallway, and I nod.</p><p>And I realize as I walk towards <em>my bedroom...</em> I’m now live-in security for Jim Moriarty.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I head back to hang up my suits - they crease so quickly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>After a bit, Steve knocks on my open door, asking if there's anything else I want. I tell him no, go home and get some sleep, and he heads off in the lift.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I approach the bedroom, feeling strangely apprehensive. The door is open, and I stand at the threshold unmoving.</p><p>Jesus. I haven't been in a posh bedroom since... well ok, I've been in plenty of posh bedrooms as a visitor. I haven't <em>stayed</em> in a posh bedroom since - ugh.</p><p>I wince at the immaculate white walls, the large windows, the ostentatious bed frame that nearly reaches the ceiling... god, the wealthy fuckers that need this kind of display are insufferable. Except you, but apparently you're the exception to every rule there is...</p><p> </p><p>I lower my things onto the floor, careful not to scuff it. I'll have to find a dust sheet later to lay down in the cupboard, my stuff isn't exactly as pristine as my surroundings...</p><p> </p><p>I lower the blinds partly, then set about putting things away. I'm not sure how long I'll be staying here - but I decide to get back into the habit of keeping things military-precise when I'm with you... I ignore the fluttering in my stomach as I store my go-bag in the cupboard behind the rifle case.</p><p> </p><p>The suitcase was roomy enough for the clothes I'll need as well as various weapons, books, and my few mementos. Then there’s a garment bag with a suit, and a case with some equipment. Anyway, that stuff is replaceable, and I'm sure I can order whatever I need through the organization. Steve gave me his contact info, and I'm now in direct communication with him instead of Yannick - which I can't say I'm upset about. I couldn't tell if he had an attitude about me, but he sure seemed to enjoy putting me through my paces more than I'd like.</p><p> </p><p>When I'm done, I look at the room again. The sofa will be great for relaxing with a book - I don't want to be in your space unless you want me there...</p><p> </p><p>But I also don't feel comfortable pulling out a book just yet - not when there's a space to check for security.</p><p>Even if it's already been done, <em>I</em> haven't done it.</p><p>I leave the room and begin my sweep of the flat.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I hear a Tiger prowling the grounds. Well I'll have to get used to that, I suppose.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This was rather impulsive, Jim.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You weren't going to get a pet, Jim.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I may need one, though. I'm getting big... which is great, but it also means I'm a larger target. I may not be able to do without the luxury of 24/7 bodyguarding much longer. And if I am going to have some dumb muscle around me all the time, it's probably best if it's someone who stands a chance of surviving me if I get irritated. I once chucked a guy from a window because he breathed too loudly.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I don't want to intrude while you're in your bedroom... So when I hear you leave, I step out into the hallway.</p><p>"I was going to do a perimeter check of the roof and the building Sir... unless there's something else you need from me, I'll be gone for a bit," I say, my voice cool and professional.</p><p>Being in the same space as you will absolutely fuck with my mind if I let it - so I <em>won't</em>.</p><p>You can do this, Moran...</p><p>I feel myself settling into soldier mode. Disciplined. Detached. Deadly.</p><p>I exhale slowly. Fuck that feels good...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I look at you, amused. "You think Steve would let me in here if he hadn't checked it was safe?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There's a stubborn look on your face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Sure, if it makes you happy, don't let me stop you," I wave.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"When you get back, I've got a good whiskey to celebrate the new place - if you turn the lights down low it's not too bad. And then we can try out the bed."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Don't you understand, it's not enough for someone else to check, no matter how thoroughly? I need to have knowledge of this place personally...</p><p>You seem amused by the prospect... and then you tell me your plans.</p><p>...</p><p>My lips part and I blink at you.</p><p>Well, that put a significant chink in my armour...</p><p>I take a breath in.</p><p>"Whisky sounds great, Sir. And anything else you have in mind..."</p><p>Trying not to look too heated, I glance at you and then leave the room.</p><p> </p><p>Fuuuuck... what's in store for me <em>this</em> time? Last time I had to recover for <em>two days </em>and I still have marks that are healing...</p><p>Focus, Moran - scope the place out, and then see what happens.</p><p> </p><p>I already <em>know</em> what will happen... you'll do whatever the fuck you like.</p><p>I lick my lips as I head to the front door, trying to keep myself from getting hard at the thought.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Don't know how much you're going to see with your eyes all glazed over like that...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I grin as you walk out, head to the kitchen, get the bottle of Ardbeg '75, pour two glasses, head into the sitting area, put the glasses on the rather oddly-shaped side table, light the fireplace (which runs on gas), sink into the silver velvet sofa. At least it's comfortable...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I keep thinking of you as I assess potential security breaches - imagining you waiting for me... and then the two of us naked in bed...</p><p>and then seeing you dead on the floor because I wasn't doing my fucking job.</p><p><em>Jesus</em>. My mouth sets in a grim line.</p><p>The rest of the sweep is uninterrupted by such thoughts. The filthy fantasies don't start up until I'm heading back to the flat.</p><p> </p><p>I see you waiting for me. I move towards you - armchair or sofa?</p><p>Is sofa a presumptuous choice?</p><p>You <em>told</em> me we were going to try out the bed... I don't think you meant jumping on it, like we're Calvin and Hobbes...</p><p>Fuck it. Sofa it is.</p><p>I sink into the cushions at a respectful distance, and you gesture at me to take a glass.</p><p>I lift it up, feeling my skin already growing warm under your gaze.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I raise my glass at you, you clink yours against mine.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"To Sloane Street, and the world's sexiest man in front of the world's ugliest fireplace," I grin. It really is terrible - whose idea was it to plaster mirrors around a fireplace? On the other hand... I could get a tiger-skin rug and fuck you in front of the fireplace, pull you up by your throat, make you watch yourself in the mirror...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>OK, it may have some redeeming features.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I take a sip - oh - peaty. I tend to go for smoother malts, but I think you will like this.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The world’s sexiest man? For a moment, I think you mean me and I’m about to protest - but then I see the gleam in your eye. Of course you’re referring to yourself - bold, audacious, and absolutely correct.</p><p>I’m about to say as much, but you get a faraway look in your eyes. And I recognize it - you’re deep in thought, so I don’t want to interrupt.</p><p>And god, it looks like you’re thinking about something very... intriguing...</p><p>I wonder if I’ll find out one day.</p><p>I take a sip after you. My throat burns with the liquid, and I smile.</p><p>You didn’t like it when I was effusive about the meal we shared. But it would feel weird to say nothing at all...</p><p>“It’s <em>very</em> good...” I say cautiously. I make sure not to thank you, since you didn’t care for that either...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"So..." I muse, leaning back against the armrest, dangling my foot so it's juuust touching the very edge of your trousers, "what brought you to my house when Viktor was over? I didn't think I had encouraged social calls."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I huff out a laugh, trying to not get distracted by your foot nudging my trouser cuff.</p><p>"It wasn't a social call, Sir. I had a feeling when I was in Paris..." I hesitate, then steamroll ahead.</p><p>"And it just kept getting stronger - like something was wrong. And I learned a long time ago not to ignore my gut - it kept me alive in impossible circumstances."</p><p>I raise my chin as you consider this. If you're going to think me too bold or a crackpot, there's not much I can do about that - other than prove it to you in the future - again. Repeatedly.</p><p>"It would have been negligent of me not to assess the situation, Sir. I hope that doesn't strike you as too... presumptuous?"</p><p>I take another sip of whisky. "Bold? Cocky?" I say in a low, rough voice.</p><p>I'm smiling into my glass. God, I can be an arrogant fucker...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Have you swallowed a thesaurus?" I ask, smiling.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A - *feeling*!? You had a *feeling* in Paris, telling you to get back here because I might be in trouble?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"It's good to know that I will be able to count on mystic vibes calling you to my side in my hour of need. However, if you don't mind, I would also like to create a work schedule that relies less on telepathy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You'll usually be here when I'm here, unless I've sent you on a mission, or you have time off - which can be whenever you like, but if I say I need you that will always take precedence. When I go out, you'll accompany me as my bodyguard when on duty.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don't want to employ cleaners, so you'll be doing the cleaning, which shouldn't be a lot of work once we've got rid of most of the tat in this place. I don't like people, so don't feel like you have to be a kind of companion. I may well get sick of having someone round and send you away again, but for now, let's drink to our happy new home."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I raise my glass again, finish it.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Just as I thought - you don't give credence to my explanation, even going so far as to mock it. Up to you, Jim - next time it saves your arse, you can decide what you believe.</p><p>It doesn't bother me, not really. I have more important things to focus on, anyway. I listen to your job description.</p><p>Pretty much the custom-designed position I would have asked for, given the chance.</p><p>Missions - good. I get bored otherwise.</p><p>Time off - opportunities to rest and blow off steam, always needed and taken full advantage of.</p><p>Cleaning - not a problem. Certainly used to it from my army days, and anyway - anything that gives my hands something to do is a good thing.</p><p>As for the rest - words can't even express what this does to me. I'll be around you <em>so much</em>... even when I'm not in the same room. Protecting you, looking out for you... being in your presence.</p><p>
  <em>Happy new home?</em>
</p><p>Fuck...</p><p>I swallow, and raise my glass in response.</p><p>"Understood, Sir..."</p><p>I drain the remains of my whisky, watching you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Don't look too happy about it, Moran. I'm a bitch to live with. The only people who ever have are dead. Well, except for my da, but he should be. I'm not going to the hellhole of Dublin to make it so, though... not worth it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anyway. Not *quite* what we had in mind when we were teenagers... we kind of skipped to the good part; didn't do the struggling in poverty bit.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You do look appetizing in this low light...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Bedroom," I say.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Taste of Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I realize I'm staring at you, and I look away. But when I sneak a look back, you're staring at me like a mouth-watering meal.</p><p>Then you give me an order I'm <em>very</em> inclined to follow...</p><p> </p><p>I make a sound low in my throat, and stand up slowly.</p><p>"Yes, Sir..." I say in a rough voice. Then I move noiselessly down the hall.</p><p>There are soft footfalls behind me... I smile as I near your bedroom. Everything has slowed down, and it feels like we've wandered into a wicked fairy tale.</p><p>Only I'm no damsel in distress...</p><p>And this dark knight longs to be possessed by his dark king.</p><p>Again and again...</p><p> </p><p>I cross the threshold to your bedroom, and wait by the bed for my next order.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I saunter after you, enter the master bedroom.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It's spacious, but that's the only thing that can be said for it. I wouldn't know where to start complaining - the random desk in the middle of the room, facing the bed, looking like a secretary should be sitting there taking notes? The giant mirrors next to the bed, which are invisible from the bed itself? The weirdly-shaped window which demands custom-made curtains, so for now I'm stuck with these silver ones? The built-in telly above the fireplace, which is just asking for overheating?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No, it *has* to be the *bloody* huge skylight over most of the room. It's got a shutter, thank fuck, but who on earth wants a skylight over their *bedroom*? When are you going to think 'ah yes, I'll open the shutter and give the people in the flat overlooking this one a good eyeful'? So it will just be shut all the time, and I'll be stuck with just one narrow window which is half-blocked by curtains at all times because of its avant-garde shape.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The small bedroom is nicer... but it doesn't have a walk-in wardrobe or a huge bath, so large dark or overexposed bedroom it is.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh, hold on - worse than the skylight is the fact that there's nothing in this area with its smooth glossy surfaces to tie a Tiger to. I'm really going to have to get some drastic refurbishing done. Maybe we can go away for a week, stash all the sensitive stuff somewhere, and get some redecorators in...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>For now, I switch on the fire, dim the lights to a suitably romantic setting, and walk up to my brand-new bodyguard, who looks at me with burning eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"How about a shower first, after all that work?" I purr, stroking your jaw - did it get more square in the past twelve years?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The bathroom is all glass and marble, but the shower is huge, and the waterfall rich and luxurious.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fuck, I’m dying to be wet and naked with you...</p><p>I have to stop myself from dragging you into the shower with clothes on so I can peel wet layers off you...</p><p>But I remind myself very firmly <em>you</em> call the shots. So I follow your lead, undress, and enter the spacious shower.</p><p>Which you’ve cranked up to an ungodly hot temperature... but I don’t care. I’m here with you under the spray, looking at your beautiful body, waiting for you to make the first move.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I have a good look at you. The shallow cuts look fine, mostly gone. The cigarette burns will scar, but are healing nicely. The M -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>the M is a Masterpiece. Straight, even depth, symmetrical - a testament both to my skill and your ability to stay still even in the most trying circumstances. I couldn't be happier with it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Grinning, I plaster myself against your wet body. Hmmm, smooth wet Tiger skin... feels *delicious*...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You take heart in my good mood, and turn your head down, close your eyes, coming in for a kiss. Oh, why not... I'm feeling oddly cheerful. I reciprocate.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There's something special about standing under pouring water, surrounded by warm and wet, everything outside this shower locked and blocked out; just the two of us, our mouths locked, our lips and tongues and hands exploring, our bodies touching, the water pouring over us...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I remain still as you examine me thoroughly, head hanging slightly down as your fingers move lightly down my back.</p><p>You make pleased murmuring sounds, and I’m feeling like quite the prize stallion.</p><p>But worse still, I <em>fucking like it</em>.</p><p>Then any self-censure goes hurtling away from me as I feel you press your body against mine.</p><p>Desire and longing have been coiled inside me so tightly, they spring forward before I can stop myself.</p><p>I imagine I’ll be slapped or rebuked or both - but then you’re kissing me, you’re <em>kissing me</em>, and I’m lost in it utterly - your lips, your hands, your <em>skin</em>...</p><p>the sounds of breathing and water and lips against lips...</p><p>Fuck... yes...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*What the fuck are you doing Moriarty.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hmmm... feels nice.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*You're being soppy. Get washed and get fucking.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Good idea.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I break off the kiss, grab the shampoo, and plonk it against your chest, then turn around and tilt my head back, close my eyes. I hear a soft chuckle, then the cap clicked off the bottle, and a large hand, slick and scented, moves through my hair.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You have deft fingers - of course, you would, as a sniper - I all but purr when you massage the shampoo through my hair and into my scalp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>After you've rinsed it off you grab the conditioner, but I stop you - "You don't put conditioner on wet hair! How can it reach the hair if there's water in the way?" I shake my head at such incompetence and grab my hair towel, carefully pad it as dry as it will go. "Now try."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You smile as I turn round, and put the conditioner in - "Not on the roots darling, just the ends," - then look puzzled when I walk away. "It needs to sit for two minutes to do its job," I say, and sit down on the silly marble bench that's on the opposite end of the shower cell for some reason. It's too far from the shower itself to be useful to put things you need on, and there's no shower head above it - but it's perfect to sit on for two minutes and let your conditioner work while you watch a hot soldier wash himself.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Wow. Who knew washing hair was so high-maintenance...</p><p>Well, washing a beautiful psycho’s hair, anyway.</p><p>And I couldn’t be happier - any excuse to touch you and focus on you completely.</p><p> </p><p>And then - to have your eyes on me as I shower...</p><p><em>Hngh</em>. I feel like I’m in the hottest porno ever... and this is just the opening scene. God knows what will happen next - after your conditioning time of course.</p><p>You little weirdo...</p><p> </p><p>After I’m done, I look at you. “I think that’s more than two minutes...” I say cheerfully.</p><p>You get up, looking every inch a bored king. Grinning, I rinse your hair. Then I hold up the body wash and look at you questioningly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I raise my arms and you wash me, reverently, making sure you cover every inch, your fingers pressing on tense muscles as they slide over them, ending up on your knees washing my feet, then looking up at my cock with hunger. Mmmm... why not.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Indulgently, I put my hand on your head, and you need no further encouragement.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh yes, this is a <em>very</em> good scene in the porno... burning itself into my mind as the hottest thing ever as I stare up at you...</p><p>Transfixed by your ink-black eyes...</p><p>feeling your fingers tighten in my hair...</p><p>Tasting your beautiful cock on my tongue...</p><p>God, it’s been so long. How I’ve <em>missed</em> this - pleasuring you, being the one to make you feel this way... coaxing such beautiful noises from you...</p><p>I make a pleased sound in my throat, and let my hands cup your perfect arse.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Very good, Moran...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Right, this floor is slippery, and though I'm sure you'll catch me if my knees buckle and I slip... I said we were going to check the bed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I pull you off, and you look at me disappointed - awww, you really like that, don't you? Don't worry; you'll get plenty of opportunity to practice - and switch off the shower. You stand up and take a towel, towel first me dry, then yourself.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I could get used to this personal service. It is indeed like being a King.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>We walk back into the bedroom, which almost looks pleasant in the low light with the crackling fire. The light dancing on your naked body... damn. I never had such libido before... it's only been what, a week; two? And it's like I am the tiger and you a juicy steak... and I haven't eaten in weeks.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What to do, what to do... I'm not going as far as last time - that was just an introductory special. I can't throw out my mattress every time I want to take my new bodyguard. Also, I want to keep you fighting fit.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I do long to hear you moan and cry though... I feel a twitch in my crotch at the memory.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I stand still, point to the floor next to the bed, then the bed. You walk over, kneel down, and bend over the side. I swallow. Such absolute obedience... not a moment of hesitation, no looking at me to make certain you've understood - you're primed for my commands, know what I want, and want nothing more than to obey instantly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can see how that won't just be handy in the bedroom.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I lick my lips, walk to the wardrobe, and get out a riding crop. Simple, versatile - it won't damage you too much, but it will hurt. I walk to where you are lying, your gorgeous body offered up like an all too willing sacrifice to your dark lord.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I lash down.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In the bedroom, there’s no leisurely easing into things - there’s an unspoken order, and a moment later, I’m draped over the bed, arse up.</p><p>Listening intently to try and guess what you’re going to do - but of course, it has to be a surprise, doesn’t it? Half the fun for you is keeping me off balance.</p><p>As for me - it might not be the healthiest response, but being at your mercy is like a fucking drug - a needle in my vein, white powder in my nose, the contents of pills coursing through my body...</p><p>I’ve been thinking myself ready when the impact comes - but how could I be?</p><p>I groan loudly in surprise, and the fiery blaze cascades through my flesh.</p><p>Oh god... here I am again... at the source of my addiction, falling into his dark embrace...</p><p>I’m not sure where you’ll take me, and I don’t care.</p><p>Do it, Jim... Please...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That groan... pain, lust, surprise, pleasure - you want this as much as I do. You curious creature...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I lash again, parallel to the first, about two inches lower. And again. Moving down towards your thighs... then up again, aiming in between the earlier welts. And then down again, challenging myself - can I place the lashes exactly on the as yet untouched bits of skin?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>oh god... oh fuck...</p><p>I'm trying <em>so</em> hard not to be too vocal, but my flesh still feels supremely sensitive... it fucking hurts and it's so fucking good, and-</p><p><em>oh</em>...</p><p><em>god</em>...</p><p>whatever you do, I just need to keep from-</p><p><em>fuck</em> -</p><p>crying again.</p><p>Hear that, soldier?</p><p><em>oh</em> -</p><p><em>Shit</em> -</p><p>A little moaning and shouting, alright - but no more than -</p><p>
  <em>FUCK</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Don't get too excited. If you stain the sheets, I'll be most cross."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I <em>won’t</em> - I-“</p><p>At a particularly sharp lash on my inner thigh, I suck in my breath.</p><p>You totally did that on purpose...</p><p>And where exactly am I going to come if I can’t-</p><p>Oh... <em>am</em> I going to come?</p><p>My thoughts seem to capsize at the sensations burning my skin, burning my mind into a crisp...</p><p>Oh god...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"So moved already, by a simple whipping... you're such a hedonist, aren't you, Sebastian?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*lash*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"And you've found that there is no greater pleasure in life than being mine - whipped by me, fucked by me, owned by me."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*lash*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*lash*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Isn't that right?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*LASH*</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The combination of your words and the lashing... god, you haven’t even <em>touched</em> my cock, and I’m already - getting - close -</p><p>
  <em>LASH</em>
</p><p>“Fuck!” I shout. “God... <em>yes, Sir</em>...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Aw, you're so good...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Tell me what you want, Tiger..."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I want what you want...” I say in a low purr.</p><p>God... you really did make me your creature, didn’t you?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh - oh you *are* good. I smile.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Such a good poppet... and what I want right now is to hear what you desire; what you want to happen to your body. I'm not saying I'll do it... but I want the information to take into consideration."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Hope flares up in me, even as I caution myself not to get too carried away.</p><p>“What I want, Sir... is for you to fuck me. Slow and hard,” I say in a rough voice. “And I want to come while you’re still inside me...”</p><p>Fuck. Yes. That’s what I want... but did that sound too demanding?</p><p>Well, you <em>did</em> ask...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Alright then... but not on my new silver sheets.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Now that desire, I can accommodate..." I slap your arse, put out my hand, help you get up, bend you over the leather-backed chair, move your legs apart so you are within reach. Lash you a few more times with the crop for good measure - there's nothing like fiery weals welcoming you when you sink into a hot arse...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then I get the lube, start working you in, making you moan and shiver.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I'm going to fuck you slow and hard, like you asked, Tiger... so don't come too soon."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh god... you actually listened to me?</p><p>My arse is burning from the lashes as you finger me possessively... fuuuck... I could come right now, but I’m sure I’d be missing out on an epic orgasm from an epic fuck.</p><p>And you seem to be very aware of the temptation... god... how did you get into my head like that? When did I let you in?</p><p>“Wouldn’t dream of it- Sir-“ I say, already feeling breathless.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I regard the feast laid out before me - the stripy arse cheeks and thighs, the magnificent M on your back in angry though healing red, the muscles under that damaged skin, the head hanging down in complete submission. I almost shiver with delight, position myself at your entrance, feel the intense pleasure of the first breach.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>As you penetrate me, I hear a sound in your throat - a muffled growl that nearly sends me over the edge.</p><p>A memory flashes through me of you fucking me as a teenager, that fateful summer in Dublin. You were dark and aggressive then too - but <em>god</em>, to see it having come to fruition in the man you are today...</p><p>I find myself wishing you had held onto some of your sweetness, but then I shove that thought aside violently. Like I’m being disloyal to even think such a thing bordering on criticism...</p><p>You are whoever you’ve chosen to be, and that is the Jim I want to be near - <em>no matter what</em>.</p><p>I feel you thrusting into me slowly and deeply, just as I longed for, and a moan escapes me.</p><p>A rhythm is established, and my body responds instinctively, moving back against you urgently.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I realize that this will be mine for the taking whenever I want it - if I don't ruin it. I can be a bit - exuberant in my violence... but if I manage to keep you alive and happy enough to stay - I will have a Tiger on tap. Quite the luxury.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You feel exquisite - in theory it shouldn't make much difference who you fuck, when you close your eyes, but in practice it's so important to have the right person... I'm an aesthete, I like my men to look good. Hot. Rugged. Masculine...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hnnn...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I dig the tips of my fingers into your freshly-welted cheeks and you moan, a deep rumble that vibrates through us both.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fuck... so good...</p><p>please, I need so much more of this... we have to do this-</p><p>So -</p><p>Much -</p><p><em>More</em> -</p><p>I gasp as you thrust into me so - deeply - like you’ve penetrated into the core of me, the core of Sebastian Moran...</p><p>“God...” I murmur, shivering as you pull out partly. “I love - how you <em>fuck</em> me,“ I groan loudly as you thrust into me deliciously hard.</p><p>“Sir,” I add, panting.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I'm glad, because there's going to be a lot of this, Sebastian Moran.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I think.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Maybe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I mean, I'm not normally so - sexual. Once every few months is enough. But since you've come back - I keep thinking of that mouth, that arse - it's like you're a firelighter that just ignites my libido whenever you're near.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh well - the newness may wear off, but thus far I'm enjoying myself, and you seem happy as Larry as well, so literally no harm done. That's rare for me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I just need to make sure you remain fully owned, are completely and utterly mine, more property than person, so you will remain my man whatever the circumstances. I think you're quite well disposed towards that anyway; will just need a liiiitle bit of manipulation... and if anyone's good at manipulation...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I move faster, relishing the feeling on my cock, stirring with the images in my head into one intoxicating cocktail, *my* Sebastian, *my* soldier, *my* Tiger, completely and utterly mine...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I groan, pull your hips closer - the chair jerks –</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Mmm, your control is starting to slip, if your noises are anything to go by...</p><p>and how the chair is moving under your movements...</p><p>and how you’re gripping my hips, as if to keep me getting away...</p><p>(Where the fuck would I go??)</p><p>Swept up in this ecstatic sexual haze, I pant and groan, pushing back against you to meet every thrust.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Wait, I was going to fuck you slow and hard, wasn't I? Oh well - I didn't specify *when*...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For now, I am on a collision course, and nothing is going to stop me. I'm moving faster and harder (one out of two ain't bad) and am reaching the point of no return...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With a voice I barely recognize, I whisper -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You can come now..."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>God</em>... you giving me <em>permission</em> to come manages to be the most outrageous and hottest thing ever... Is this what’s going to happen every time? I think faintly and then I’m thinking nothing at all as I begin to shiver intensely, and then violent spasms overtake me.</p><p>“Oh - god,” escapes my lips as I dissolve into shuddering ecstasy...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You're spasming and shivering and moaning and how could that not push me over the edge... I would be a marble statue, a stainless-steel robot...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I thrust inside you as your muscles contract around me, your groans echoing off the brown marble wall. My back arches and I shudder as I come.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It seems to last *forever*, and is almost too much to bear –</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I become aware of your orgasm bearing down on us, and then it’s wave upon wave of shivering and groaning, and I can’t tell where mine leaves off and yours begins...</p><p>I already know sex with anyone else on the planet would be <em>epically</em> disappointing after this... and hardly worth it after you killed me.</p><p>I lie underneath you, feeling utterly wrecked, and a dazed grin spreads across my face.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>All is black, with purple fireworks, and I barely feel the ground under my feet, the man under my hands - I'm floating in a vacuum, the endless void of space, the only sound the relentless pounding of my heart...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Slowly, very very slowly, light peers around the edges of my perception, and I find I am still standing, grasping you, breathing fast. My knees are weak - I'm leaning on your hips. You shudder with an aftershock, making your muscles flutter, causing a shiver through me as well, a continuing ripple like we are one creature...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Right. That will do, Moriarty. Get your mind out of deep space and your feet back on the ground.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Carefully I slip out, and head back to the shower. Snap my fingers.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I feel bereft when you withdraw - again. Even more so when you walk away...</p><p>Fuck - this is so much harder than I thought it would be.</p><p>But then - who would have guessed having someone snap their fingers at me would bring me such - dare I say it? - <em>happiness?</em></p><p>But of course it’s not just <em>someone</em>...</p><p>I hop up with a grin and follow you to the bathroom.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You're so housetrained already... was that the army, I wonder? Or just my irresistible personality?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Either way, you're grinning from arse to armpit as you follow me into the shower.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm still a bit woozy - that was one hell of an orgasm...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The shower is perfunctory this time - no luxuriating in water and expensive hair products, and certainly no kissing your bodyguard.</p><p>Although you seem more than happy to allow your bodyguard to bathe you. Is this going to be one of my work responsibilities now?</p><p>What a hardship...</p><p>I manage to keep myself from smiling like a loon as I wash you and towel you off.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"It's getting light - I guess it's time for bed," I remark, heading to the huge bed, giving myself a critical sideways look in the mirror - is that a hip bone protruding? I really need to eat more...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You gather your clothes, and head for the door.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Where are you going?" I snap.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You turn around, look at me uncertainly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"If someone breaks in to shoot me you're not going to be much use sleeping peacefully on the other side of the apartment, are you? You sleep on this side, between me and the door. There's a gun in the bedside cabinet. And if you snore, I'll strangle you."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I take all this in as I leave the clothing on a chair and head towards your bed.</p><p><em>The</em> bed.</p><p>Do I sleep here now?</p><p>Like - nightly?</p><p>I watch you slide under the covers and slip in next to you.</p><p>I’m sure there will be nights when you order me to the second bedroom, or maybe you’ll change your mind entirely.</p><p>Well, I’ve never received complaints about snoring before... thank fucking god.</p><p> </p><p>I’m not sure what position to lie in, but you turn away so it doesn’t feel like an issue anyway. I stay on my back for now, waiting for you to turn out the light.</p><p>Do you read before bed? Check your phone?</p><p>Still so much I don’t know about Jim Moriarty.</p><p>but when the lights go out and you fall asleep... I imagine it will be almost like being with my Jim again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I switch off the lights and the fireplace with the remote control. The dawn is seeping in through the cracks in the silver curtains.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*what envious streaks do lace...*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stop it, Moriarty. What you got up to when you were fourteen, and stoned to the gills, I might add, is not relevant now.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*It was the fucking lark.*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>We had so much more care to stay than will to go...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Enough*, Moriarty. You're tired and getting delirious. Go to sleep.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You're lying very still, but I hear you breathe. When's the last time I slept with someone? When I'm a persona I usually only pretend to sleep - I find it impossible to relax when there's someone right next to me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Will I be able to sleep at all, I wonder as I lay listening to your breathing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your rhythmic breathing...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Soft and steady...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I was right.</p><p>It <em>is</em> almost like being with my Jim again...</p><p>like no time has passed.</p><p>Like the last twelve years have been a chaotic dream.</p><p>Have we been dreaming all this time, Jim?</p><p>
  <em>Don’t be stupid, Moran.</em>
</p><p>I swallow.</p><p>Jim would have been in my arms.</p><p>Moriarty, my boss, is hardly going to want a cuddle.</p><p>My eyelids begin to droop, and I let them close.</p><p>Sleep is good... keeps me from thinking. <em>Remembering</em>.</p><p>Just don’t sleep too deeply, Moran... you’re still on the clock, after all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I'm arguing with my new neighbour that my kitten can't have eaten his chickens because it's only a tenth of the size of his bloody chickens, but he insists that he ate them when they were chicks, and I scoff that the kitten wasn't even born then. He insists that I keep the kitten inside, but I gesture at the apartment - come on, cats have a well-developed sense of aesthetics - I can't keep him in here. He says I'm a bad pet owner, and I get furious -</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Wake up.*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I shoot awake.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*What.*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>There's someone here.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Fuck.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why didn't I wake up earlier? He's already right beside me - no time to grab my gun -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I jump, punch, grab his throat all in one lightning-fast movement.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>!!!</p><p>
  <em>Can’t breathe</em>
</p><p>
  <em>THREAT</em>
</p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Neutralize NOW.</em>
</p><p>Grab attacker.</p><p>Punch repeatedly - side of head, eye.</p><p>(Hold back?)</p><p>
  <em>Why?</em>
</p><p>Remove hand from throat, suck in air, throw attacker down.</p><p>Annihilate.</p><p>(HOLD BACK, SOLDIER.)</p><p>
  <em>Why?!</em>
</p><p>I blink at the furious man underneath me. Where do I know this face from?</p><p>Oh fuck...</p><p>“Jim?!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"*Yes*," I spit, glaring furiously at your fist hanging in the air. Don't you *dare* hit me again. I can feel my eye swell - I'm going to have one *hell* of a shiner tomorrow and how am I going to explain *that* to Durell?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm not, of course - let him speculate. It all adds to the myth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Anyway.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Are you going to *let go*, Moran?" I hiss. You move your hand off my throat, pull your fist down. I move my shoulders, my neck, rub the side of my face. Nothing broken.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Funny, I thought having a bodyguard was meant to *prevent* me getting hurt."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Shit shit shit...</p><p>But what was I supposed to do, waking up with a hand squeezing my throat?</p><p>“Sorry, Sir... instinctual,” I say in a rasping voice. “Didn’t foresee being attacked in my sleep... but I’ll acclimatize to the environment.”</p><p>The environment being the bed of a psycho who fucking chokes me in the night. Morning. Whatever.</p><p> </p><p>Leaning back against the headboard in a daze, I let out a long slow breath. Gingerly I touch my throat and wince.</p><p>“That, Sir, was an example of how I’d react if someone attacked in the night...” I say, and cough painfully.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Thanks. I really wanted to know," I frown, but no matter how much I want to, I guess I really can't complain about you responding if someone jumps you in your sleep.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hadn't considered that effect of having you in my bed. I consider sending you to your own room - but I have to admit it does feel quite good to have a specialist combatant between me and the door.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I guess I'll have to get used to it - I don't normally have people in my bed," I explain.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>God... did I actually hear an explanation of your actions? That’s as close to an apology as I’ll ever get, I’m guessing.</p><p>“I suspect wanting to avoid injury or death will trickle into our subconscious minds soon enough,” I say wryly. “Hopefully there’s ice or cold packs in the freezer, I’ll have a look...”</p><p>I get up, remember I’m naked and consider grabbing my trousers from the chair -</p><p>fuck it, you’ve seen it all before.</p><p>I look back to see you watching me, one eye already swelling shut.</p><p>“Good instincts, Sir... and that punch was bloody savage...” I say, my voice still hoarse. Grinning, I slip out the door.</p><p>I make my way to the kitchen. Thankfully, it is well stocked.</p><p>Mm. Food...</p><p>First things first, Moran... I dig through the freezer and find two cold packs. I grab them along with a couple of tea towels, and head back to the bedroom.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You wrap a tea towel around one cold pack, hand it to me. I lie back, put it on my eye, hiss, but it does feel soothing after a second. I feel the bed moving as you lie down and lay an ice pack on your throat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I start to giggle.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Moriarty. You don't *giggle*.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But come on - it is a ridiculous situation.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I wince as I press the ice pack to the side of my throat. A couple of inches over and you would have made contact with my larynx. I swallow hard at the thought and my eyes squeeze shut.</p><p>They open again when I hear -</p><p>Are you <em>giggling?</em></p><p> </p><p>I look over at you in surprise. You make a face at me, looking comically shocked - and I burst out laughing. Then I groan at the sharp pain in my throat.</p><p>“God... we’re going to look like we were brawling,” I say, coughing into my hand and then sniggering helplessly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Some bodyguard you are," I smirk.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, Sir... I’ll just have to reprogram my reflexes,” I grin back at you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"I could just chain you down whenever we go to sleep, but then you having to wake me up and ask me nicely to untie you when there's an intruder in the bedroom might not be ideal," I sigh.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Not unless the intruder is patient enough to wait, no,” I agree.</p><p>I could offer to sleep in my actual bedroom. Would that be more professional?</p><p>...</p><p>No. Fuck that. <em>Professional</em> is ensuring you stay alive - what’s a black eye and a bruised throat in comparison? Worthy sacrifices.</p><p>“Are you going to sleep more, Sir?” I ask politely. “Or can I get you anything?”</p><p>There. That was professional, wasn’t it?</p><p>Says the naked bodyguard covered in lash marks... after being whipped by a riding crop and then fucked <em>hard</em> by his boss...</p><p><em>God</em>, that was <em>hot</em>... no <em>don’t get hard</em>, you <em>idiot!</em></p><p>I pull the sheet discreetly over myself, feeling flushed.</p><p>Very smooth, soldier...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I look down at the sheets, raise an eyebrow. "Anything you had in mind?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I let my gaze trail along your body loosely draped with a sheet, and back up to your piercing eyes.</p><p>You’d better get this right, Moran... or it will be considered far too forward for a bodyguard.</p><p>“Well, Sir... the <em>least</em> I could do after this morning’s unfortunate incident is provide a service far better suited to waking up. If you fancy - relaxing...”</p><p>I smile at you, all innocence.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Well. I could get used to *this* kind of waking up...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"What an excellent suggestion," I grin, throw back the covers to reveal my naked body.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“<em>I </em>thought so,” I purr as I crawl towards you.</p><p>Now my erection is on full display, but it doesn’t matter because this is all about you. I can’t even explain the effect you have on me...</p><p>I’ve always enjoyed giving pleasure, but with you - it’s a whole new level.</p><p> </p><p>I lower my head, staring at you. Looking like a lazy feline, you watch me placidly.</p><p>With a low growl, I dive onto your semi-hard cock and begin to fellate you.</p><p>God... I really get to just do this now?</p><p>After twelve years of pining and longing...</p><p><em>Enough</em>, Moran - the most beautiful cock in the world is in your mouth. Give it the attention, the adoration, the <em>worship</em> it deserves...</p><p>You let out a little sigh, and your eyelashes flutter shut.</p><p>That’s it... you lie back and enjoy yourself, my King...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>God, that mouth...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm going to find the names of everyone who you practised this on and I'll kill them one by one, so only I will remain knowing the exquisite secret delights that lie in the mouth of Sebastian Moran...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I groan, which seems to excite you so much you moan in response, which gives me *thrills*...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I suck harder as I dig my fingers into your arse. Careful, Moran... not too much with the nails, I don’t think his Lordship will appreciate that...</p><p>But he’s definitely enjoying the fuck out of this blow job...</p><p>as am I, Jim...</p><p>God, your perfect cock... your breathy exhalations... your low moans...</p><p>what could be hotter than this?</p><p>I groan at the sheer unbridled pleasure of it all...</p><p>God... fuck... yes...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fuck -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>it doesn't last long; morning wood is easily satisfied and your mouth is a delight -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I arch my back, dig my nails into the expensive linen, feel my entire being contract in my balls, and *explode*...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>Yesss</em>, right down my throat, baby...</p><p>Mmm...</p><p>Fuck I’ve missed this, I think dreamily as your body jerks and you make the most beautiful desperate, breathy sounds.</p><p>
  <em>I’ve missed -</em>
</p><p>Calm down, Moran - it’s only a blow job.</p><p>Nothing’s changed.</p><p>I slowly move my mouth along your shaft, making you shiver. There’s a quiet popping sound as I release your cock, and you give a deliciously sharp inhalation.</p><p>I fall onto the mattress beside you, wishing I could stroke your face.</p><p>“I trust Sir is pleased...” I murmur, gazing up at the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My breath slowly comes back as vision returns.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well. What an invigorating start to the day. I could get used to that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Excellent wake-up," I smile, hop out of bed, head towards the shower.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Just some cereal and loads of coffee for me for breakfast. If you want a cooked one you'll have to keep the kitchen door closed, I can't stand the smell."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I close the shower door behind me and start it up nice and hot, whistling.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I remain in bed as you go off to shower. Alone.</p><p>Well, you did say housekeeping duties were my jurisdiction.</p><p>And you did<em> not </em>say I should go ahead and think of this as a romantic connection. Yes, I'm sleeping in your bed, yes, I've been here for less than twelve hours and we've already showered together and engaged in a whipping, a shag, and a blow job... where was I going with this?</p><p>I don't fucking care. Best job ever, Moran - don't fuck it up with<em> feelings.</em></p><p> </p><p>I get up humming, and head to my room to throw on a pair of jeans. By the time I get down to the kitchen to start coffee and breakfast, I've started singing.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When I turn off the shower, I hear - what's *that*? Have you got the radio on?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I open the door, to hear - no. It's you. You're singing. While cooking breakfast. Just like you did -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No. That was entirely different. We were just - kids.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I get dressed, head to the dining room, where milk and cereal are sitting ready - what the fuck. Milk in a *jar*. Different types of cereal in different *bowls* with *scoops*. Honey and sugar in little ceramic *pots*. It looks like a bloody BnB. I shake my head - well, you'll be doing the dishes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You are in the kitchen alternating singing some song I don't recognize with threatening the coffee machine with acute defenestration in a singsong voice.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"The on-switch is on the back," I say, leaning against the doorway. I have to say I approve of the sight of you making coffee in just low-slung jeans.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I look at the back, then switch it on with a huff. Stupid thing.</p><p>Unnecessarily complex for bloody coffee.</p><p> </p><p>I get out cups and watch you start to eat your cereal. Shame you didn’t want a cooked breakfast. Maybe at the weekend?</p><p>I would fry an egg for myself but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. How can you not like the<em> smell?</em> Have you been living in a sterile environment without any life around you? Well. I’ll just have to do something about that...</p><p>A couple of minutes later, I’m bringing two steaming cups of coffee to the table, and then helping myself to cereal.</p><p>We sit in silence, eating and lifting the cups to our lips. It’s a bit surreal but strangely comfortable, like we’ve been doing this for years...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The coffee is good, though finite. I push the empty cup towards you while I'm checking my laptop, you take it and refill it, take my empty cereal bowl and all the rest.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm meeting Durell at three, just checking any last-minute info... nothing seems to have changed. I check his emails, but nothing alarming.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do I take my new bodyguard? Well, it's what they're for, right?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Be ready in ten minutes - we're meeting a contact. No trouble expected, but be prepared anyway - you never know."</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I pause while putting a bowl in the dishwasher.</p><p>Ten minutes. Good thing I can get ready in the blink of an eye.</p><p>I nod at you, shut the door of the dishwasher, and head upstairs.</p><p>As I throw on clothing, I muse about the circumstances I now find myself in... Our first night together with me as live-in security... our first morning (well, early afternoon)... our first breakfast...</p><p>Things are going swimmingly under the circumstances - i.e. you being a right prick from time to time. I suppose that level of being difficult wouldn't be sustainable every moment of the day... Jesus, what am I doing - planning a series of books? <em>Your Psychopath and You?</em></p><p>I chuckle at the thought as I strap on weapons. Then I saunter downstairs, with one minute to spare.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“You’re going to need some new suits if you’re going to be my bodyguard. Can’t have people thinking Moriarty’s staff can’t afford clothes,” I frown.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We’ll go shopping tomorrow. I have a tailor who will make even you look decent.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There are bruises in your neck, visible over your collar, and I sport a beauty of a black eye. Oh well...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We walk to the car, drive to the cafe where I’m meeting Durell.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Suits? Ugh.</p><p>A tailor? Fucking hell.</p><p>I thought those days were behind me...</p><p>Guess not.</p><p>Though - walking behind you is like a fucking dream come true.</p><p>I’ll wear as many bloody suits as you like...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Durell is waiting in a comfortable chair, his associate/bodyguard on a less comfortable one on his right side.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His eyebrows rise when he sees me, then move to you. I can read the questions in his mind, but he wouldn't say anything. I smile broadly as I take my seat, you beside me. "Jonathan - a delight, as always. Coffee for me, thanks," I tell the waiter. We talk about the weather and the traffic till the coffee has arrived and the waiter has made himself scarce, when we can get down to business.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Durell has information on Tsybulenko I want. He doesn't know I want it, so I need to make him tell me without him realizing. I have a distribution network he wants in on, which suits me just fine, but he doesn't need to know that either.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, usually relying on brute force to get ahead. It's almost embarrassingly easy to manipulate him to where I want him. His associate must not have been selected for his wits either - I wonder if he even understands words of more than two syllables.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s strange, the bodyguard business...</p><p>I thought it would take some getting used to, just standing there. Waiting. Assessing.</p><p>Not that I didn’t have all those skills as a soldier.</p><p>But being at your side, at your beck and call, is indescribable - like I’m finally in the place I’m supposed to be. My mission is the only thing that matters and wears the most beautiful face...</p><p> </p><p>You haven't told me a thing about Durell. In this, you're not unlike the army - a strict need to know policy.</p><p>So I just use my skills to assess him as I scan the environment. Doesn't appear to be a direct threat, anyway. As for trustworthiness? I suspect most people you deal with aren't particularly trustworthy - if they know Moriarty is in the chain of command, terror will most likely keep them in line. But that doesn't account for greed, power grabs, or stupidity, which criminals tend to have in excess. But I'm sure you have a handle on all that, and so I'll just stay focused on safety.</p><p>Weird to think how crazed I once was, worrying about you...</p><p>Fuck... am I ever going to stop thinking of the past??</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>As we're leaving the cafe I'm nearly skipping. That was easy and fun. And there was a Tiger witnessing it, which is more fun than having just two dullwits not realizing they're being screwed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Fancy a fun trip before dinner, Tiger? London Eye? Museum? Indoor playground?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A fun trip before -</p><p>What??</p><p>“Sounds good, Boss,” I say with a grin, before I realize what I’ve said. “Whatever you feel like...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"We'll go to the Royal Observatory," I decree. "I love the Royal Observatory, don't you?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t been since - my Eton days,” I muse. “We went on a field trip, and were barked at fairly frequently to behave,” I chuckle. “I suspect this will be a much more enjoyable experience...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"You expect I won't bark at you? Or I won't behave?" I smile deviously.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m guessing - both,” I smirk back at you.</p><p>Jesus... am I flirting with my boss? I know we do before sex, but - I assumed you’d be all business most of the time.</p><p>And here we are heading to the Royal Observatory... to look at stars?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"We'll have to see," I grin, then walk two blocks to the cars where Steve and two of his men are waiting for either a signal for backup or a debrief of the discussion.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You open the door for me and I slide into the back next to Steve, then you walk around to go sit beside the driver. Steve is staring at me, deliciously uncomfortable, looks at you, then back at me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can read his mind as clearly as if he was speaking out loud. Delivered Moran to Boss's new residence at 0330 this morning. Boss was looking normal. No threat detected. Boss spent the morning in his residence, then met up with Durell, and is now sporting bruises and a black eye. Moran too is showing bruising around the neck.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Did they get into a fight with Durell? But they didn't request backup.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No speculating - just action.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Do we need to clean anything up?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I smile innocently. "No, why? The negotiations went swimmingly. As planned, Durell will come in on the West Kensington side, strengthening our position there, taking thirty per cent, which he believes to be a third. Get Flint to call his man Jason. Start in Lillie Road."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Steve notices your eye and my neck immediately. His expression is terribly amusing... and your reaction makes it very difficult not to laugh. But I remain neutral and stoic, as required.</p><p>When you make a phone call, Steve leans in.</p><p>"What the fuck is going on?" he says, out of the side of his mouth.</p><p>"Nothing to worry about, Sir," I say blithely.</p><p>"He has bruises and a <em>black eye</em>," he mutters. "Just - do your bloody job."</p><p>"No complaints about my work thus far..." I say, my voice pleasant but strained from the choking.</p><p>"Keep it that way." He stares at me hard, then looks unsure. "You alright, Moran?"</p><p>"Just fine, Sir..." I say with a slight smile.</p><p>He shakes his head and goes silent. When Jim informs him we're off to the Royal Observatory, he merely nods.</p><p>Clever man, Steve...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The moment I'm on the phone I see Steve interrogate you. Very subtly. Aw, good old loyal Steve. You're stone-facing your way through it. I struggle not to giggle on the phone, then realize it's probably good for my reputation as an unpredictable madman, so do it anyway, then hang up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Right Moran. Get that cute arse out of here," I grin. You get out, open the back door for me, I get out and slap your backside, then march up the road to the museum. I hear the door slam shut and your footsteps behind me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jesus. You’re not exactly going for subtlety, are you...</p><p>When you swat my arse, a smirk escapes me before I can stop it. Well, whatever... it’s not exactly a secret from Steve anymore. He knows it, and you know he knows it. Whatever ‘it’ is...</p><p>I glance back to the car and see Steve rubbing his eyes. This time I can’t stop myself from laughing. You look back questioningly.</p><p>“Steve seems concerned about something,” I say cheerfully. “Poor guy...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Wouldn't you be? You get your Boss a brand-new live-in bodyguard, think you can finally sleep easy at night - and the very next day said Boss looks like he's been in a scrap with an elite soldier, and the bodyguard's pretending he doesn't know what you're talking about when you ask him what the fuck happened - poor boy's about to get grey before his time," I grin. I love a bit of chaos.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the museum I head straight to my favourite bit with the astronomical and navigational instruments and talk your ear off about the intricacies of creating a proper orrery, but then take pity on you and head to the weapons collection, where you actually tell me something about the tommy gun I didn't know.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You decide we’re going to take in a planetarium show, even though I suspect you know significantly more than the astronomer who’ll be leading the presentation.</p><p>As we settle into our seats and wait for the lights to go down, I realize what’s felt so familiar about this. On some level I’ve been thinking about the day we went to a Dublin museum together- back when we were teens in love, before you disappeared and everything went to hell.</p><p> </p><p>I look at your hand, imagining holding it. Those days are no more. I <em>know</em>.</p><p>But what the fuck are we doing here? Criminal masterminds don’t go to cultural and historical sites with their bodyguards...</p><p>Unless you would do this kind of thing on your own anyway, and I just happen to be along for your protection?</p><p>Fuck. The only thing I hate more than not knowing is the thought of receiving a definitive answer that I don’t want to hear.</p><p>Like ‘Moran you idiot. Do you think this is anything other than convenient hot and kinky sex? Do you really think I’d be interested in <em>more?</em> And why are you still dwelling on one inconsequential week that happened twelve years ago?? Grow the fuck up!’</p><p>Something like <em>that</em>. I shudder at the thought. Better to live in limbo... torment though it may be.</p><p> </p><p>The astronomer arrives at the podium, looking ancient and dusty like some of the less compelling academics I remember from my Oxford days. (The more compelling ones I fucked, of course.)</p><p>I nudge you. “He looks like he’ll give a riveting presentation,” I mutter. “Should I make him disappear and you can take over? Give the kids a talk they’ll never forget?” I say with a smirk.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Ohhh, tempting... but a bit late now he's in full sight of the audience. Maybe another time... I'm sure I can make it more interesting than he is, with his droning voice and bland statements.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Ten minutes later we are outside, after having been repeatedly asked to leave and finally escorted outside by security.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Some scientist *he* is... you'd expect he'd appreciate being kept up to date on the latest discoveries in his field," I scoff. "But no, we'll just ignore 47 Ursae Majoris and keep on telling the kids lies. No wonder this country's going to the dogs. What are you laughing at?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing - oh god -“ I laugh uproariously as I stumble after you towards the car. “Just the look on his face - when you called him an ignoramus... and a s-sexless dullard... but calling him Polonius is what really -“ I start choking with laughter as I fall into the backseat. “Oh god- when he threw his <em>cane</em> at you! And hit the s-security guard-“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Looked completely blank when I called him Polonius as well - typical boring scientist who doesn't look beyond his own field and probably hasn't seen a play in his life," I scowl. Oh well - I was getting peckish anyway.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I direct the driver to a steakhouse at Canary Wharf. Some banknotes take care of the 24-hour notice policy, and soon we are seated in comfortable leather chairs in a private room overlooking the South Dock and the flashy bank towers across it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Look at them..." I ponder. "Such wealth, and all based on nothing. Thin air. Numbers on a screen. Every day they go in there and write money into existence. An elaborate fantasy, just waiting for someone to *pop* the bubble..." I mimic bursting a balloon with a needle. "And if I write some of that fantasy money onto *my* accounts, I'm a criminal. It used to be that criminals stole real things. Horses. Drugs. Jewels. Gold. Now it's putting fictitious numbers in the wrong column..."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Although people appropriated things like power and position, too... and if they were successful, they weren’t called criminals...” I smile slyly at you as our drinks arrive. “Even the occasional throne and crown was purloined... isn’t that what you’re really doing?” I muse, and hold up my glass. “To the shadow king behind... everything,” I murmur.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I look at you with appreciation. "Good point." I raise my glass. "Of course, power is as fabricated as money is these days. Any king has less *actual* power than the lowliest of his soldiers, because the latter is probably fitter and has a weapon to hand - it's all a structure of make-belief, and the moment anyone stands up and says the emperor is naked, society will collapse - if anyone were willing to listen. But it won't - because everyone will be shouting over each other to drown out the voice and extol the virtues of the emperor's tailor, because that is what our world is based on, and admitting that everything we know and own is an illusion would be unthinkable. And so society continues to lie itself into progress day after day... perfectly sensible builders turn up and construct towers of concrete stone and steel where overeducated insomniacs reward them by changing some zeroes into ones and vice versa."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I stop jabbering to sip my wine. Yet another commodity whose value is entirely based on a fiction - is it good? Sure. Is it fifty times as good as its cheap supermarket cousin? Of course not.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"To the shadow king... and his loyal shadow knight," I smile.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll drink to that,” I say, hiding my smile in my glass as I sip my lager.</p><p>I tell myself not to get carried away but I can’t help but feel... electrified.</p><p>We went out today, and had a great time. You knew what drink to order for me.</p><p>(You <em>remembered</em>...)</p><p>You’re talking to me on a level I don’t believe most of your employees would ever experience - perhaps even Steve who you clearly value and rely on.</p><p>Oh poor Steve... I wonder if he’s trying desperately to not think of what we’re doing now.</p><p> </p><p>We discuss your criminal enterprise and some of its challenges, and it’s so utterly absorbing that when food is placed in front of us, I’m almost taken aback. Oh right... restaurant.</p><p>You’ve taken me to a posh restaurant. And tomorrow you’ll be buying me a suit... fuck me. How the tables have turned...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I explain the basic premises of the empire to you - just the stuff it's good you know if you want to progress. This is not how I usually train people, but you're a bit of a unique feature - I haven't employed a live-in bodyguard before, of course. I think I'd have killed anyone within a day, but you're remarkably pleasant company. Everyone I meet is either sucking up, or trying to look bigger than they are, or trying to be clever, or chattering nervously to fill the silence. You are none of these things - you have a quiet confidence to you that's relaxing to be around, and your mind is sharp - not on a par with mine, of course, but nobody's is. But you're not dull. You make me laugh several times during the meal - and when do I ever laugh? Genuinely laugh, because something is funny?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>We drink more than I expect, but I'm game. And soon we're on our way back to the car, stumbling slightly.</p><p>We fall into the backseat, sniggering.</p><p>"Don't worry, Sir," I say, with a slightly dazed grin. "I would need to drink far more than this for my reflexes to be affected."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"That's a good point!" I realize. "You're on the job! Getting drunk like that - very unprofessional."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not drunk; you are, Sir...” I smirk. “I’m just a little tipsy - and there’s nothing I can’t do with a few drinks in me that I can do when I’m sober. I’d be happy to demonstrate for you, if you like.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Go ahead," I decree, trying to think of a suitable challenge in the London night.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I think for a moment. “Shooting range? Obstacle course? Or if you want something more realistic, you could get one of your security people to attack me - I’ll do my best not to kill them...” I say with a sly smile.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Ohhh yes, the obstacle course!" My eyes light up. I get in touch with Yannick, tell him to get it ready for you, and a gun and target at the end.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I lean back in the seat to watch as you make arrangements. You’re grinning like a lunatic, which makes me laugh.</p><p>God, I had to suggest an obstacle course?</p><p>Well. My professional reputation was on the line. You have no idea what I’m capable of when I’m under the influence - anywhere from tipsy to plastered, really - but it’s high time you found out.</p><p>“Oh good... Yannick,” I say brightly. “He’ll be thrilled to see me again...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"He was quite impressed by you, actually," I confide in you. "He seems grumpy, but he's got a good eye for talent."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The car drives us to the assault course, which is a little outside of town. Yannick sends me a text that he'll be there in twenty minutes with the key and the supplies. I frown. Twenty minutes?? What do I pay him for?!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Make it fifteen*, I send crossly, tell the driver to turn up the music, and open the drinks compartment, take out a bottle of whiskey, one of water, and two glasses.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Which one will it be, Tiger?" I ask, holding up the whiskey and the water.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I laugh. "Make it whisky."</p><p>You raise an eyebrow. Well if you really want to be impressed... I'm not going to choose the water, am I?</p><p>You pour us both some whisky and we clink glasses.</p><p>Mmm. Fiery and delicious...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I knew you were going to go for the whiskey. I take a sip - mmm, good - but you knock yours back, hold your glass out again, a cocky grin on your face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Really, Tiger? Are you a show-off like me?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Careful there - this is a sipping whiskey..."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"I just want you to know you can trust me when I say I can handle it," I say firmly. Then a smirk escapes me. "And maybe just maybe I like to flaunt what I'm capable of..."</p><p>Your lips twist slightly as you fill my glass.</p><p> </p><p>Fifteen minutes later, Yannick arrives, looking surly as ever.</p><p>"Yannick," I greet him with a cocky salute. "It's been too long, mate..."</p><p>His brow furrows as he scans me. "Have you been - drinking?"</p><p>"That's the idea," I say cheerfully. "Good to go..."</p><p>His eyes widen slightly and he shakes his head. "Alright. Enjoy falling on your arse, then..."</p><p>I saunter towards the obstacle course, followed by you and Yannick. When it's time for me to begin, I look back at you. "I've got this, Sir..." I say with a grin.</p><p>My heart quickens as I look at the course. You and all distractions fade well into the background. I retreat within and touch the white-hot centre at my core where nothing can reach me. Adrenaline begins to course through my veins. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, smiling up towards the sky.</p><p>This is going to be <em>fun</em>...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Yannick gives the starting signal, and you are off. He and I walk along the side.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You launch yourself against the first wall, and spiderman your way up and over it, then jump like a cat from platform to platform, each time landing surely and ready for the next jump.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I see your eyes, and recognize the light in them - this is how you looked when you were in the cabin at the end of this same assault course, having shot the dummies, looking out for danger. You look alive.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You're making your way across the rope net. I look at your shoes - they're going to be useless by the end of this, but you are doing this as if you were wearing army boots. Though you did choose lace-ups which won't fall off your feet, with a sturdy rubber sole - always prepared for a bit of running and climbing, even when dressed for a meeting.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Now I'm glad I did this course repeatedly... at the time it was bloody infuriating, but now I know like the back of my hand.</p><p>Pipe crawl - done.</p><p>I swing on the rope over the ditch like fucking Tarzan, and execute a perfect landing.</p><p>As I scale walls and climb ladders, I feel such a powerful high - because not only I'm in my element pushing myself to my limits, but you get to watch me do it - in person this time.</p><p>When I shimmy up the climbing ropes, I can't help but wonder if we're going to fuck tonight. And how much hotter it's going to be after all this - mmm -</p><p><em>No distractions, soldier!</em> I bark at myself. But I have a feral smile on my face that lasts the rest of the course.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>At times Yannick and I have to run to keep up with you. I love watching this - you *are* a tiger as you're leaping and gambolling across the course in the light of the moon, your eyes still shining, a grin on your face as you jump down from the last obstacle, grab the gun Yannick put there for you, and shoot the target - quickly, almost nonchalantly. I can read your body language, can see how every muscle is primed to do the task in front of it - you *look* nonchalant, because you want to, but you are fully focussed; you have only one thing in your mind, and that's that target over there. It's like there's a magnetic line from it to your bullet, and all you needed to do was release it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You put the gun back on the table, turn to us, your face shining with sweat, smugness, and satisfaction.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Anything else?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A shame I had Yannick clear out that cabin - I could have dragged you there and taken you right now. It's going to take *forever* to get home. But I do want to properly fuck you - no fumbling on a dark field with Yannick desperately trying not to see and hear anything.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Do it again."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>My head falls back and I laugh darkly. <em>Of course</em> you want me to do it again.</p><p>Next time don’t be so fucking smug, Moran...</p><p>Because now all I want to do is curl up in bed, and it will be a bit more of a challenge this time...</p><p> </p><p>But if anyone loves a challenge...</p><p>“Of course, Sir...” I say lightly. Can’t be too snarky or I may find myself running it a third time...</p><p>I drink from the water bottle Yannick offers me, then shake myself out.</p><p>I nod at him and he gives the signal.</p><p>“Once more into the breach,” I say cheerfully, and take off like a shot.</p><p>Within moments, I’ve cleared the first wall. Moments later I’m tackling the monkey bars, adrenaline once again making me soar.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You laugh - you think I'm being nasty.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well, I am - a bit. But I'm also watching how you are doing this second round. How you're only slightly slower, still very certain. There are some telltale tremors in the muscles, but very very minute. Still got that gleam in your eyes. And when you reach the end, the bullet hits the target no less accurately.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Again."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I sigh but get into position, I knew I had been too cocky... now you’re making me prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Fine.</p><p>Remember that night in Kandahar, soldier? Drunk as a skunk, and separated from your unit... outmanned, outgunned... needing to get through an obstacle course of walls and buildings and rooftops to make it to the rendezvous point in time?</p><p>You were <em>bleeding</em> at the time from a stab wound, remember Moran?...</p><p>This is <em>nothing</em>...</p><p> </p><p>Yannick tosses me a water bottle - my hand snaps it out of the air and I drink it down. Breathing in deeply, I settle into my stance, close my eyes...</p><p>I hear the signal and I’m off, streaking through the course like a blazing comet.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Again."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Again."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>No protest. Your eyes blaze, but you do as you're told.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I catalogue the differences between each round, which muscles start to become erratic, where the slowness sets in. Which are the effects of the alcohol, which of exertion.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm pleased to see how you still shoot straight even when you can hardly lift your weapon.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Finally, you fall off a 10-foot wall, scrape your face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"That will do. Brush yourself off and let's go."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>Point made, Mr Moriarty sir</em>, I think to myself as I stare from my back up at the evening sky.</p><p>Aww... a few beautiful stars.</p><p> </p><p>I pick myself up painfully and brush off the clods of dirt and mud sticking to my clothing and skin... only I’m covered in perspiration, and the dirt smears across my arms.</p><p> </p><p>Well. It did take <em>five times</em> for me to fuck up.</p><p>I sigh as I exit the course. No point in making excuses. It’s a good reminder, Moran - no one is infallible, not even cocky, seemingly unkillable soldiers...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>We walk to the cars. You open the door for me, then walk around to the other side.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I don't know where you think you're going, but you're not coming in here like that. Yannick, take him to Sloane Square. Moran, take off your boots before you get in the lift. I'll see you in my bathroom."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We drive off.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I laugh as I follow Yannick to his car.</p><p>“Glad you think it’s funny, Moran. Told you you’d fall on your arse,” he mutters, opening his door.</p><p>“Yeah, on the <em>fifth go</em>. You’re missing the point, Yannick. Our employer was curious about what I was capable of under the influence and now he knows...” I grin, buckling myself in.</p><p>“And why would he need to know that?” he challenges, hands tightening on the wheel.</p><p>“Why would he need to explain himself to an employee?” I drawl.</p><p>“He doesn’t,” Yannick says with a huff - but I see a faint hint of a smile trying to break free.</p><p>When he drops me off near the building, he’s back to his usual scowling self.</p><p>“Don’t fuck up, Moran... I don’t want to have to find a replacement for you, if I can help it...”</p><p>“I’ll endeavour not to inconvenience you,” I say lightly and get out.</p><p>He eyes my bruised neck. “Is there any point in telling you not to be stupid?”</p><p>“Not really. But thanks for caring, mate,” I wink, and slam the door.</p><p>As I walk, I get quite a few looks - in this area I suppose it’s not often you’d see an inebriated soldier-type, streaked with mud and grinning like a lunatic.</p><p> </p><p>In the apartment building, I almost step down in the lift before I remember your order. I pull off my boots and sling them over my shoulder by the laces. Once again, I get strange looks from people across the lobby - obviously you have a private lift.</p><p>I spend the entire ride up imagining what will happen in the bathroom...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Ed drops me off near the apartment. Call me paranoid, but I don't want anyone knowing where I live until I've worked out how Tsybulenko found my last one.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I head to my bedroom - you must be shortly behind, and I want to be ready.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I start up the bath, throw off my clothes, add scented foam to the bath. When I hear the sound of the lift I quickly get in. It's not full yet, but there's enough foam to cover myself.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Ah, Moran. You look rather dishevelled... why don't you take off those filthy clothes and have a shower?" I gesture to the shower at the end of the bathroom - I don't want a muddy Tiger in my bath, but the walls separating the shower from the rest of the bathroom are conveniently made of glass, so I can lean back and see you wash yourself – after which I may just allow you to join me in the large tub.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>My grin grows even bigger when I see the gleam in your eyes. You want a show, do you?</p><p><em>Gladly</em>.</p><p>I already left my jacket, boots and socks in ‘my’ bedroom, which I have yet to sleep in...</p><p>I peel off my shirt and heed your warning glance, toss it into the laundry basket. Next I shuck off my trousers. Your eyes are looking significantly bigger as I peel out of my pants.</p><p>“I apologize for being so <em>dirty</em>, Sir, ” I drawl, straightening up. “Hopefully I can make up for it... <em>somehow</em>...”</p><p>I open the door to the ridiculously large shower. Behind the glass it really does feel like a show... Grinning, I turn on the water and stand under the spray. Then I grab a loofah and body wash and move my hands slowly over my body as I bathe. I’m extra thorough with my cock, even though there’s no dirt visible to the naked eye. When I glance up at you sitting in the bath, I notice you’re leaning forward...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>This bathroom is growing on me. The bath takes forever to fill, but it's nice and roomy, and the view</em> <em>is rather spectacular.</em></p><p>
  <em>I watch to see how your muscles are recovering from their exertions, which bits twinge and tremble, how far you can lift your arms -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- and then I'm kind of distracted.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh you wanton hussy - you do know how to put on a show, don't you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Who have you been doing this for? In the communal showers in the army, before letting yourself be taken by a whole platoon?*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Calm down Moriarty. He's yours now. Well and truly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The glass is steaming up, and you rub it off, the water distorting your silhouette, the vision of the vision within.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I raise my hand up out of the steam, bend my finger in a come-hither gesture.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Your eyes haven’t left me since I stripped off my clothes... and you obviously like what you see.</p><p>Can I help it if that makes my exhibitionist side take over?</p><p>By the time I’m good and clean, apparently you’ve had enough of just watching.</p><p>God, yes...</p><p>I turn the water off quickly and shake the excess out of my hair. Then I walk towards the bathtub slowly...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You've recovered all of your cockiness, haven't you. It's alright - it's well-deserved. You are bloody hot.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Nice and clean, Tiger? Pray join me - there's room enough for two in here..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You step into the bath, slowly, hiss when your whipped skin makes contact with the hot water, but lower yourself down, looking at me with big hungry eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I move my foot, slowly stroke it up the inside of your thigh, use my toes to tickle your balls.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>God, this is really happening, isn’t it?</p><p>It’s not a dream. I’m taking a bath with you... the <em>fucking</em> hot water is a dead giveaway.</p><p>I still can’t get used to this... after all the torturous times I’ve had to wait for you to grace me with your presence (not to mention the little matter of not seeing you for <em>twelve years</em>)... now I just see you all day, every day?</p><p>Yannick was right - I need to not fuck this up.</p><p>But at the moment I have other things to focus on. Your foot, for instance... the things you’re doing with it, driving me wild with that slow, light stimulation you favour at times... if you’re trying to make me mad with desire and sensation, you’re well on your way...</p><p>“Oh - god,” I groan, my head falling back. My body jerks and I shiver...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Yes?" I purr, pleasantly. You're such a fun toy to play with... Not scared or squeamish, not grovelling or obsequious, just - you. Obedient but not servile. With a magnificent appetite for the... better things in life.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Like me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My toes move together, pinching your skin. You tense, breathe in, but don't pull back, don't resist. I twist a little - your eyes close and your breath grows shallower, but yet you remain still.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I wonder - I do wonder -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- not now. You've done well tonight.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I release your skin, move forward, plonk myself onto your lap, rub myself against you. You gasp again, move your head back, then up again, your eyes ablaze. You lean towards me, but my hand shoots out, grabs you round your neck, squeezes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Kisses - *if* they happen - are instigated by me."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I squeeze a bit harder. "Anyone tries to kiss me when I don't want it, they'll have a split lip. Understood?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I squeeze a final time, then release.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A split lip would be <em>so</em> worth it... don’t you know that?</p><p>You’ve only made these forbidden kisses more desirable - surely you know?</p><p>But I’ll play along - for now.</p><p>When you release me, I cough and clear my throat for a bit - then I smirk up at you. “Understood, Sir.”</p><p>
  <em>I look forward to it, Sir.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I throttle you and you smile at me? Where did they make you, Tiger? I'm sure you're one of a kind...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your erection hasn't abated, and I'm reminded of how much I wanted to fuck you at the assault course - and you haven't got any less attractive since then.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm not going to try to take you in the bath - it's too slippery; I don't want to break something sensitive - so bedroom it is, again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The memory of how you looked last night, draped over the chair, the fresh stripes bright red next to the darker red of the M -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>oh - fuck -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Out. Now."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I heave myself onto the side, grab a towel, throw you one.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>God... sitting with you<em> in my lap</em>, when you're looking at me like that...</p><p>not being able to reach for you feels like an impossibility.</p><p>But then, 'impossible' is my speciality.</p><p>So I just stare up at you hungrily as you stare back with eyes blazing, and -</p><p>Mmm. I have my order.</p><p>And it's a good one.</p><p>I dry myself off, throw the towel into the laundry basket as I follow you out the door into the bedroom.</p><p>You turn and suddenly I'm being slammed against the wall - when you kiss me it's like being devoured by a wild animal, and I moan against your lips, trying desperately not to grab you and pull you down to the floor.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You may still end up with a split lip like this - as may I - but you're so fucking *scrumptious* and I need to taste you...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I push you towards the chair, bend you over it. Your arse still looks stripy, and quite red after the hot bath. The M looks angry on your back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Mine.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don't know why I seem to need to keep proving that, but it feels *so good*.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I open the lube, work you in, push inside -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>oh -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*fucckkkk...*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There is *nothing*, *nothing* in this godforsaken shithole of a world, that feels *anywhere* near as good as this.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>God, it’s only moments before you’re pushing your way inside me, claiming me...</p><p>I let out a loud groan. You’re deliciously rough and dominant in just the right way; no one has ever been able to make me feel - so - wholly - <em>taken</em>.</p><p><em>Fuck yes</em>, Jim... take me again and again...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You're groaning as I enter you, but not in discomfort - this is pure ecstasy. You love this as much as I do...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I fuck you hard and fast, feeling the energy build and build inside me, feeling you tremble against me -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I reach down, grab your cock in my hand - rock hard - and you groan louder, shudder, clench - and that's it, I'm off, again over the edge of the abyss, and as I shudder myself into you, you grasp the seat of the chair, stiffen, gasp, and cry out -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>simultaneous orgasm, how fucking *romantic* -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>oh fuck this is -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>fuck -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>oh, *fucckkkkk*...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I lay draped over the chair, with you collapsed against me. My chest heaving, I struggle to catch my breath.</p><p>“Fuck,” I gasp. “You’re fucking – amazing -“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Huh? Words?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I make my way back to planet Earth, find myself leaning on you, panting hard. Slowly, my breath quiets.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Wow.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It takes a while before I feel ready to move. It's comfortable and warm here, draped over a Tiger...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Finally, I move back, take some tissues from the desk, wipe us off.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Yet another shower... you're costing me a fortune in water bills," I grin. "And let me put something on your face - you don't want a scar on your temple."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You gesture at me to follow you into the bathroom. I push myself up, groaning.</p><p>My legs are like jelly. Sex after five jaunts through an obstacle course will do that to you...</p><p>I shuffle into the bathroom, and you point at the bathtub. I sit on the ledge as you pull out a first aid kit. You’re going to take care of my wound? I could get used to this...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I look at the scrape. It looks clean, so I just rub some vitamin E cream in. "That should do..." I put the tube on the shelf next to the sink. "Put some more on it in the morning."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then I lead you into the shower compartment, take the showerhead off the hook, so you can keep your face out of it. After we've towelled off I walk to the bed, slide between the sheets.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Coming?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You don’t have to ask me again...</p><p>I make a beeline to the bed, restraining myself from jumping onto it from halfway across the room.</p><p>I slip under the covers, glance over at you as you settle yourself.</p><p>Should I wish you good night? That doesn’t seem quite right if you don’t care for standard social conventions like ‘thank you’.</p><p>I turn away from you, so you have a sense of privacy.</p><p>I’m lying next to <em>Jim</em> - my seventeen-year-old self would be having a heart attack at this moment.</p><p>My twenty-nine-year-old self isn’t faring much better. All my professionalism is a front. And I have to keep the facade in place - no matter what.</p><p>You can never know how I feel.</p><p>I <em>can’t</em> lose you again... I <em>won’t</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You lie down with your back to me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anything wrong? Can't be - I spoilt you -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Probably just your favoured sleeping position, or a way to not stare at me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I check my phone, decide the world will probably be able to do without me for a bit, turn off the light.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I hope we'll make it through the night without either of us attacking the other.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Victim of Changes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jim is safely in my arms...</p><p>he called me from Dublin, explained everything - he was afraid and took off. But when he realized he couldn’t live without me, he came back to beg my forgiveness.</p><p>I told him there was nothing to forgive -</p><p>I will <em>always</em> come back to him.</p><p> </p><p>He stares up at me with those huge black eyes, stealing my very breath.</p><p>“Wake up, Sebbie,” he whispers.</p><p>“Hmm?” I murmur, nuzzling your lips.</p><p>“Wake up. <em>Now</em>.”</p><p>I blink slowly, and look down at my arms in confusion.</p><p>Oh. Oh shit. Grown-up Jim.</p><p><em>Boss</em> Jim.</p><p>Who will not be very happy at being spooned by his bodyguard.</p><p>Fuck...</p><p>Heart pounding, I slowly extricate myself and move away to my side.</p><p>Your deep breathing continues. Thank the fucking lord.</p><p> </p><p>I stare up at the ceiling, my heart feeling like it’s going to burst from my chest. How the fuck am I going to do this every night??</p><p>If I don’t wake up punching your lights out, then I’m <em>spooning</em> you.</p><p>A niggling thought floats up in my mind. Your hand.</p><p>Your hand was on mine.</p><p>A smile spreads across my face dreamily.</p><p>I close my eyes to catch some more sleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What's this? We're not back in Dublin, are we??</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No - we're at the Fitzsimonses', but they've moved to London. It's alright.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We're in their bed, and Mrs Fitzsimons tucks us in. "Good night, boys..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Good night, Mrs Fitzsimons..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They're now sleeping in the spare bedroom. Very nice of them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You wrap yourself around me, and I feel so nice and warm... I put my hand on your hand, it's so hot, and my hand is so cold... my hands are always cold...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>But then you move away, leaving me alone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No, we had that bit, didn't we? You went away - but you came back?! You're back, and you're in London - aren't you?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Don't be silly, Jimmy," you say, getting dressed in an army uniform. "I need to learn to fight. You can't teach me. You're not a tiger."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"But - you've been in the army! You know how to fight - I saw you..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I need to learn more. Besides, I can't stay here. You're a psycho. You're going to get me killed."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I open my mouth to protest, but I don't know what to say -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- you're probably right - but -</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"I'm so cold..."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Get yourself a heated blanket," you say, and jump out the window on a rappelling rope.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When my eyelids flutter open, I see you staring at me. Looking positively haunted.</p><p>Quickly I rise up on my elbow.</p><p>“Everything alright, Ji- Sir?” I correct myself, cursing inwardly. Can’t make mistakes like that, Moran... give him exactly what he wants. Nothing more, nothing less.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You're still here.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I feel - confused, after the dream. One of those dreams where you're not sure what reality is. Did you say you were leaving?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I sit up. My head a bit clearer.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No, it was all a dream. You are here. You are mine.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Have a drink of water.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You're still looking at me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Either get up or get back to sleep - don't sit there gawking. I'm having a fucking drink of water. Hardly a spectator sport," I snap.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Quite the charmer, Jim...</p><p>“Morning person, are you?” I grin, before I can stop myself. Well, I can’t not be who I am. “Coffee? Breakfast?”</p><p>Valium?</p><p>Romantic getaway?</p><p>I sit up in bed, stretching.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Both. Make it lots. Somehow I drank more than I planned to last night... you're a bad influence."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a curse...” I say, smirking as I get up. I grab a pair of pants from the chair, and slide them on. “Lots of both, coming right up...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You had way more than I did - how are you so chipper?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Years of practice, I guess...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I groan, lie back down. I'm not facing verticality without coffee.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Poor Jim... you’re looking a little pale, and you can’t afford to get any paler. So before I start on breakfast, I make my hangover cure, and bring it to you.</p><p>“Guaranteed hangover cure, Sir. Just water with sugar and salt.”</p><p>You eye the glass dubiously. “Sounds dis<em>gust</em>ing...”</p><p>“Just take a sip, Sir... you’ll see.” I wait then sigh and place it on the bedside table. Then I make my way back to the kitchen.</p><p>You didn’t specify anything, so - full English it is. Luckily the kitchen is fully stocked. Happily, I throw myself into making breakfast and soon enough eggs and bacon are frying, and I pop back to the bedroom to give you coffee.</p><p>You grunt and take the cup. With satisfaction, I note the water has gone down a bit.</p><p>“Keep drinking, Sir... you won’t regret it,” I say cheerfully, ducking to avoid the pillow thrown at my head.</p><p>A little while later, I’m serving up full plates and examining the table. Toast. Juice. Full English. Perfect.</p><p>“Sir!” I shout as I pour the coffee. “Breakfast is served!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Your witch's concoction is filthy, Tiger.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And now I'm summoned to breakfast like some dog.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I drag myself out of bed, put on last night's pants and a t-shirt, and walk to the dining room, where a giant plate of fatty, greasy, and salty food dares my stomach.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I sit down, sigh, hold out my empty coffee cup.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Coffee coming right up, Sir," you singsong cheerfully. "Oh, looks like you forgot your drink in the bedroom - I'll nip right down and get it. You enjoy your breakfast..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You cooking a full English...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I am reminded of the Fitzsimonses' kitchen, the stealthy breakfasts you made there... the best I ever had.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I shake my head. This hangover is making me maudlin. Stay with it, Moriarty.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When I return to the kitchen, you’re sipping coffee and eyeing the plate dubiously.</p><p>“That’s what this is for...” I say, handing you the glass. “Drink that and breakfast will be a pleasure, I promise you...”</p><p>You throw me a look that immediately makes me think of my Gran’s cat - utterly brimming with indignation... but thankfully you seem too tired or ill to muster up any real vitriol. You stare at the glass in your hand as if I’ve just suggested you drink poison. Then you huff out a sigh and grudgingly take a sip.</p><p>As you swallow, you look appalled and peevish. I use every bit of military discipline I still have to keep myself from sniggering.</p><p>“It’s vile,” you croak. “Why would you give me something so <em>abhorrent</em>, Sebastian...”</p><p>I’m grinning ear to ear and my heart feels like it’s burst open. You called me <em>Sebastian</em> in that petulant voice, and you sounded like the Jim I once -</p><p>Oh <em>fuck off</em> Moran... it doesn’t <em>mean</em> anything, he’s just - hungover and cross and it makes him sound - so young...</p><p>I clear my throat quietly. “Because you’ll feel better,” I say firmly. “Trust me - drink the poison, Sir...”</p><p>I smile into my coffee cup as you take another sip and make a retching sound.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I *know* it's helping, Tiger, but that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Can't you administer it intravenously?" I pout. "At least then I won't have to taste it..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Eat your breakfast, and occasionally take a sip. You'll feel like a new man," you smile.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I scowl. I don't want to feel like a new man. I want to feel like myself, yesterday, before I poured all that poison inside.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Though - I *did* have a good time, with the wine, and the food, and the talk, and then the assault course... I smile, a bit.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The food is good, and seems to settle my stomach. It also contains about a million calories, but that's alright. Today doesn't count.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I run through my agenda. I have nothing planned - was going to take you shopping to get you some decent clothes... well we can do that some other time. I want to think about Tsybulenko, but that will *definitely* have to happen some other time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I finish my breakfast, your dreadful drink, and the coffee, and I still feel like death warmed over.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That's why I don't drink... well, that, and I hate dulling my senses. I need to be alert always.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So why did I down all that wine yesterday... and the whiskey?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I look at you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I felt - I felt that I could relax the constant vigilance - because you were there. You wouldn't let anyone get near me. I felt -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- protected.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Huh.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I tuck into breakfast, relishing it - and checking as surreptitiously as possible to make sure you’re still taking sips from the glass.</p><p>I don’t want you to feel like you’re managed or handled.</p><p>But I also don’t want to deal with a cranky hungover Jim all fucking day...</p><p> </p><p>“Anything on the agenda today, Sir?” I say, noting with satisfaction that you’re now eating bacon rather intently, closing your eyes as you chew.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Getting rid of this horrid hangover," I complain. "Maybe blowing up the Goodman for serving such terrible wine."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You smile. "It may have had more to do with the quantity than the quality..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I humph.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I'm going back to bed after this breakfast. Take you shopping later if I feel better."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I swallow a groan along with a mouthful of coffee. Is it wrong to hope your hangover lingers? A mild one of course, just enough to make you lazy. We could go back to bed, and later curl up on the sofa to watch films like we never could when we were -</p><p>I nearly choke on my coffee.</p><p>Oh, Jesus - what the <em>fuck</em>, Moran?</p><p>I cough into my hand, and you pass me a napkin silently.</p><p>Well, that was unexpectedly... thoughtful.</p><p>Or more likely you just don’t want me coughing all over your breakfast...</p><p>“Did you just learn?” you inquire as I cough into the napkin.</p><p>“Sorry?” I say, crumpling it and leaving it next to my plate.</p><p>“To ingest liquids... And here I thought you were something of an expert,” you say drily.</p><p>“Yeah, swallowing isn’t usually a challenge -” I say, chuckling.</p><p>Oh. God. Did I just-</p><p>Of course I did...</p><p>My lips twist into a smirk.</p><p> </p><p>You raise an eyebrow and finish your coffee.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"An excellent suggestion," I decree. "A good breakfast, a blow job, and a nap, just what I need."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I clean off my lips with my napkin, stand up. "I'll brush my teeth, then you can come to the bedroom - five minutes."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I manage to keep my mouth closed as you sweep out of the room imperiously.</p><p>Well. We seem to have established a pattern... One where I service you whenever you wish...</p><p>lay down and present my arse for you whenever you desire...</p><p>I jump up and start tidying away the remains of breakfast.</p><p>Four and half minutes later, I’m sauntering towards the bedroom. I find you sprawled out over the covers, looking at your phone.</p><p>I crawl over the bed towards you, and you throw your phone to the side.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Make it a good one, Tiger... I am suffering..." I pout big-eyed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You grin confidently, bend over me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>oh yes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I forgot just how incredibly *good* you are at this.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>God... will it ever fully sink in that I can do this again?</p><p>Blow you... get fucked by you...</p><p>sleep in the same bed...</p><p>Make you breakfast...</p><p>I’m obsessing about the past again, I can’t seem to stop -</p><p>I need to get this under control...</p><p>After all your cock is in my mouth <em>at this very moment</em>, and that requires my full attention...</p><p>Oh yes... every inch of it...</p><p>I go slowly and languorously at first until you’re pulling my hair, urging me on -</p><p>I grin as I go slightly faster, making you groan -</p><p>I know what I’m doing, Jim... I want to leave you gasping and moaning, and I won’t stop until I hear it...</p><p>Mmm... getting closer...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You're too fucking good at this - I mean, you were good when we were teenagers, but this is -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- fuck, how many people did you practice this with? I'm going to kill them all -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>oh - god -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>All thoughts of others and killing are wiped from my mind as your tongue does things that will earn you a seat at god's left hand... *right* at his left hand... oh *fuck* you got me delirious now -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hear a whimper - that can't have been me, I don't *whimper* - there must be a - cat in the room...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>oh - god...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>god, those sounds, those <em>sounds</em>... how your breath catches in your throat, how it wavers, mmm, whimpering too?</p><p>You’re making me delirious; you know that?</p><p>I could come just from feeling you shiver and clasp my hair, and nothing’s even touching my cock...</p><p>the shivering increases...</p><p>God, you feel so fucking good... come, Jim... come for me...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"No - *no* -"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What the hell - am I begging?!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No - of course not - it's just - sounds; involuntary sounds...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My fingers tighten in the back of your scalp, my back arches, my entire being centres in my loins - and then thrusts into you in wave after wave of pleasure so intense I nearly black out...</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I hum with pleasure, gripping your hips - as your body is wracked by shuddering spasms, I feel the pulse of semen releasing into my mouth. I swallow it down, pressing my nails lightly into your skin and making you jerk.</p><p>After slowly moving my lips up and down your cock as you ride the aftershocks in a daze, I release you.</p><p>“Mm. Would you like any more coffee, Sir?” I ask politely as your eyelids flutter, and you seem to be trying to remember who and where you are...</p><p> </p><p>That’s right, Jim... You’re remembering what only your Tiger can give you, I think with satisfaction.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I really see an *awful* lot of black spots. There's more black spots than non-black spots.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I lie panting, heart racing, for quite a bit before they retreat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"No... no coffee. I will sleep."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What do I do with you though? I mean - I've just hired you. You'll probably not be too certain on what to do when I don't need you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You can do what you like - as long as you're not noisy. There's some workout equipment in the third bedroom; the stuff that I use; let me know what you need and I'll order it. Or go out if you like - I'll text you when I want you."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I feel a pang of - something I <em>really</em> don’t want to look at closely.</p><p>“Right... I’ll go work out then, Sir...” I say casually.</p><p>The smile slides from my face the moment I step into the hall.</p><p>I head to ‘my’ bedroom for workout gear, my mind racing.</p><p>You’re allowed to want some time to yourself.</p><p>Obviously.</p><p>And... it’s not like you’d invite your bodyguard to have a nap with you.</p><p>Fuck, Moran... you’re really getting carried away with - <em>this</em>.</p><p>This is a <em>job</em>, after all. It’s <em>work</em>.</p><p>That happens to be for the love of your life.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck!</em>
</p><p>Now the ‘pang’ is a full-fledged stab of emotion through my guts.</p><p> </p><p>I go to ‘my’ bedroom to change into workout clothes. Then stop. The workout can wait. I need to clear my head. I throw on a black t-shirt and motorcycle trousers, leather jacket, and boots.</p><p>Then I head to the underground car park and make a beeline for my bike. I kick it into gear, and the engine roars to life.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When I wake, I feel marginally more human.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What was I thinking? I never drink like that. But the wine just - flowed, as did the conversation, and it all seemed so... natural.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You're not here - I can sense the emptiness of the apartment.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I stretch, walk to the kitchen, make myself a coffee. I should really get to work on Tsybulenko. Though - I also said I'd buy you some decent suits. And I'll probably work better tomorrow when my head is brighter.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I send you a text: *1 Savile Row, in an hour*</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I’m turning a corner when I feel the buzz of a text alert. Stopping on the side of the road, I read it - one hour. That was quick.</p><p>
  <em>Miss me already?</em>
</p><p>My finger hovers over the keyboard, and I smirk. I can’t write that... much as it would amuse me.</p><p>I type ‘K’ instead, and continue my ride. It will only take me 30 minutes, so I still have time for a ride before I head to the tailor -</p><p>Jesus. <em>Savile Row</em>... I never thought I’d have to go there again...</p><p>wasn’t that the point of assassin work? To no longer be a part of society and its expectations?</p><p>Well. That’s still true - it’s <em>you</em> and your expectations I need to live up to... demanding little shit.</p><p>I grin and rev up the engine, then tear down the street.</p><p> </p><p>Fifty-five minutes later finds me parking my bike by the shop, and then sauntering in with my shades. Given the sales assistant’s expression, he did not expect such an uncouth beast to stroll in. This could be fun...</p><p>“Hello, my good man,” I say cheerfully, as I remove my leather gloves. “I’m told I’m in dire need of dressing up...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I turn as I hear your voice. Dual responses war for supremacy. First one is 'oh - fuck.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You're wearing tight black bike leathers and I am seriously considering telling the tailor to get us some lube and leave us alone in the fitting room for a few minutes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Second one is - you're wearing *biking leathers*. And *big boots* all over their precious floor.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Can't take you *anywhere*.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Glad you could make it, Moran," I say, eyebrow raised.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The tailor looks from you to me, but is British enough not to make any comments, or even let his expression change.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"This is the gentleman you referred to?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m the gentleman in question,” I confirm, removing my shades. “Let’s get this over with... I mean, started.” I smile pleasantly and from the corner of my eye, I see you shaking your head.</p><p>The tailor remains coolly professional but I sense his dubiousness - I’m well-versed in how these people think. He guides you towards a selection of suits to look at. I trail behind you, blissfully not a part of the conversation - even though I’m technically more <em>gentleman</em> than the little prig could ever dream of being...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*Fine*, if you're going to be a prick about it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"My associate here is not very well-versed in etiquette; I do apologize. Still - the apparel oft proclaims the man, and I'm keen to lift a fellow up in life - and what better place to do so than here?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Quite, Sir," the tailor agrees.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Now, I was thinking - here, this black with a blue sheen to it. I think that will go great with his eyes, don't you think? Then some standard black... a few lighter ones for summer - any particular colour you like, Moran?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I stare back at you. “I’m partial to black and grey, Sir,” I say evenly.</p><p>You hold my gaze for a moment longer before turning back to the collection before you.</p><p>Oh shit... you’re irritated.</p><p>Jim of the past would have enjoyed my snarky attitude... right?</p><p>Suddenly I’m filled with doubt...</p><p>Am I remembering you clearly? Or remembering how I want you to be?</p><p>After all, I only knew you for a week, twelve years ago... it may as well have been a century...</p><p>But did you really think Sebastian Moran would respond well to being in this kind of fussy environment?</p><p>Although... we visited a suit store that week... and it was magical.</p><p>Suddenly it hits me. The significance of this moment - I bought you your first good suits, and you loved them but felt so conflicted by me buying them for you.</p><p>Now - you’re buying them for <em>me</em>.</p><p>Oh. Jim.</p><p>I blink. “But if you want to choose another colour... You have excellent taste, Sir...” I say quietly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You appear to be bored by this - well fuck you, Moran. If you're going to be my employee, you're going to dress like I can actually afford to pay you decently - look at it as a uniform.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You seem to lighten up a bit - well, good.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Hmmm... can't beat the classics," I muse, looking at you. "A good black, a black with the sheen, dark grey, light grey for summer, and... I guess a dark blue."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The tailor takes your measurements, making as polite conversation with the leather-clad stranger as if you were an impeccably dressed aristocat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Still, I can sense his confusion when he hears you casually converse about vents, taper, and spalla camicia, and see the gears whirring in his head to match the way you look with the way you talk - still keeping up the casual Estuary accent, but as knowledgeable about pockets and buttons as he is.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm starting to enjoy the show.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Next come the measurements, where I have to stifle every urge to be a right bastard. But your irritation has dissipated, and now you seem intrigued as you watch me fall back into a very old way of being. It would be far more infuriating to be here, if I wasn’t in your presence.</p><p>I feel soothed being with you, and utterly stimulated...</p><p>It’s like there’s a continuous internal murmuring of ‘oh my god... I’m with <em>Jim!</em> I’m working for Jim, I’m being fucked by Jim, my entire world is Jimmm!’</p><p>It’s messing up my head. I know it is...</p><p>But if it’s madness to be with you, then I have no interest in sanity.</p><p>None.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>We go over designs with the tailor and he asks you to come back in two weeks for the first basted fitting. I tell him one week. He looks at me, nods. "Very well. We look forward to seeing you again, Mr Moran."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You put your biking gear back on. I raise an eyebrow at you. "Can I get a ride, bad biker boy?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh. Guess I’ve been forgiven for acting like a shit...</p><p>I grin. “‘Course you can, Sir...”</p><p>I tilt my head to gesture at the sliver of a seat behind me. You frown for a moment, then get on the bike with your usual nearly unearthly grace. I hand you the spare helmet, and put mine on.</p><p>Sliding my visor up, I look back at you. “Straight home? Or would you like to go for a ride, Sir?”</p><p>Not strictly a professional question, especially when asked with the slightest smirk. But you don’t seem surprised in the least...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>So why do you have a *spare helmet*, Sebastian? Who do you usually give rides to, hm? Hot girls in short skirts who need to hold onto you *very tightly*? I don't expect you were anticipating giving me a lift... I will have to enquire about this. Later. Now my perfect hair is being squashed and I'm perched on a mudguard.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I should get my own bike. We could go riding - and it's always handy, in London traffic.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For now, let's get out of London traffic.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Go for it," I say. Some fresh air will do me good.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>My smile is covered by the helmet, but I’m sure you can see it in my eyes.</p><p>I nod, wait for you to slide your visor down... I follow suit, turn around, and feel your arms go around my waist. I close my eyes briefly - god, what this would have done to me at seventeen to see this scene unfolding...</p><p>A moment later, the engine has revved into life and we’re pulling away from the pavement and weaving in between cars.</p><p>Being on a motorcycle is like an extension of my body... you’ve seen what I’m capable of on an assault course, let’s show you what I can do for <em>fun</em>...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I tend to get about in cars, because it doesn't mess up your hair and you can do some work, but there is something to be said for the ease with which you tear past the stationary traffic, sometimes barely missing a wing mirror. I'm hardly dressed for this - we must make quite a sight, the impeccable suit behind the black leather.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It takes a while to get out of the city, but when we do, and you really let loose on country roads, I am nearly whooping.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That's it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Stop -" I pat your thigh. "Stop!"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You stop, look at me puzzled, push up your visor. "Everything alright Boss?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Yup. That way."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We head into a small suburb which has a motorcycle dealership. This salesman is less professional than the ones in Savile Row, and does raise his eyebrows at the unlikely duo walking into his shop, but he's only too delighted to sell me a bike.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>As we wait for the paperwork to go through, we go outside to smoke.</p><p>Your eyes are still bright from the joyride, and you look closer to the Jim I once knew than I’ve seen yet.</p><p>“You already have a licence?” I say, impressed. I hand you a cigarette and hold the lighter for you. “When did you learn to ride?”</p><p>You look at me as you take a long drag, then blow smoke towards the sky. Is that an inappropriate question for an employee of Jim Moriarty? Too personal, maybe?</p><p>Well, no more personal than sticking your cock in me every chance you get, I think as I light my cigarette and breathe in the delicious smoke.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I wave my hand dismissively. "It can't be too hard. I've watched how you do it."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What?” I stare at you in surprise.</p><p>“You mean you’re - going to ride for the first time? <em>Now?”</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I look at you. "Why? Is it a bad time?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I look at my watch. “Well, I do have a full afternoon of very important appointments...” I grin at you. “But I suppose they can be rescheduled...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I don't see what's funny about this. I enjoyed that ride; I want to do it myself. Feel the wind on my face, not behind your back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The salesman has managed to talk me into buying a leather outfit for myself. He talked of gruesome injuries, but really I want to look as hot as you do. I head inside to change; carefully fold my suit and put it in a backpack, put my shoes in a plastic bag and add them, then put on the head-to-toe leather and the open-face helmet, slide on my sunglasses, take the bike I picked out, and walk outside, where you're leaning against your bike having a smoke.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s hard to say what will amuse you and what will fall flat...</p><p>I take it there hasn’t been a lot of laughter and fooling around in your life...</p><p>I don’t know why that makes me feel so sad... like I’ve let you down somehow by not being there to make you laugh? It wasn’t exactly by choice, I think morosely as I smoke.</p><p>But I can’t keep getting sucked into the past like this, I remind myself. I need to focus on the present. My present life, my present job, my present -</p><p>Jim.</p><p>I watch stunned as you saunter towards me, encased in leather...</p><p>“Holy shit,” I mutter.</p><p>You approach me, looking satisfied. I can only imagine how I’m staring at you.</p><p>“Jesus, you... You look - fucking amazing,” I blurt out. “Boss.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Thank you - but it's not about the looks -"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I laugh. "Oh who am I kidding. It's *all* about the looks. Shall we?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I fling my leg over the bike. Right. That's go, that's stop, that's gears - I start, get the feel of the balance, then move forward. Yes - that feels about - a bit of a balance adjustment - interesting, feeling physics in action - this isn't too difficult, really -</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I turn around at the end of the car park - or I mean to. I find myself on the floor, the bike beside me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Hey!"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You come rushing over, but I was going at very low speed, and nothing's injured but my pride.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Making sure not to smile, I help you up. When you swat me away, I have to try even harder.</p><p>“Your first spill... bound to happen, so a good idea to get it out of the way,” I say, nodding sagely. “And it’s important to know how to fall in a way that reduces the chance of injury. You did well.”</p><p>The lesson has to end on a positive note. I tilt my head towards the bike. “Again, Boss.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>From behind my sunglasses I look daggers at you repeating my order from last night. But you're right - I should get back on.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'll be fine - just a slight delay in the communication of my brain's knowledge of physics to my body.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A bit more moving back and forth, taking corners, turning, accelerating and decelerating, a sudden brake, and I think I got it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I tear out of the car park onto the free road.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I watch closely as you practise, not seeing any significant need to correct what you’re doing. I was already pushing it earlier, telling you to get back on the bike. But sometimes SAS mode takes over - and I have to admit, it feels fucking good to just say what needs to be said and not worry about how it’s going to be taken.</p><p>Best not get in the habit of that, I think with a grin. Emergency situations only...</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly you’re peeling out onto the road, breaking me out of my reverie. My eyes widen, then my engine roars to life and I tear after you, grinning.</p><p>I follow you for a while, admiring the ease you’re driving with. Amazing how quickly you picked this up...</p><p>Then I rev my engine again and overtake you with a jaunty wave. It’s not long before you do the same, giving me a two-fingered salute instead. I laugh, letting you have the lead.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>We ride back home, put both our bikes in the garage, then I drag you upstairs and fuck you like I've been needing to since I saw that tight leather.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I've never been so sexual as these past weeks - you light a fuse inside me when you just - are anywhere near. You're just too hot...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*This is getting dangerous, Moriarty.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What dangerous.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*He's getting awfully close.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes well he's supposed to, as a bodyguard.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Not what I mean and you know it.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That's all in the past. I don't *feel* shit any more. I was only little. Not to mention on drugs. My mind is clear now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*What would happen if he died?*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why would he die?!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Hello. He doesn't exactly have a cushy desk job.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's not going to die.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*Jim. You're not being logical.*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>OK, OK! If he dies - well. I'll have to get a new bodyguard. Probably a set. On rotation.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, I can't imagine...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He'll have to just not die. He's good at that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He better be.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Playlist:</p><p>It Gets Better - AlicebanD<br/>Odds Are - The FifthGuys, Thatsimo, RIELL<br/>Still Crazy After All These Years - Paul Simon<br/>Gehenna - Slipknot<br/>Just the Same - Bruno Major<br/>White Blank Page - Mumford and Sons<br/>For Your Entertainment - Adam Lambert<br/>(I've Just Begun) Having My Fun - Britney Spears<br/>Nobody's Dirty Business - The Devil Makes Three<br/>Nicotine - Panic! at the Disco<br/>First and Last and Always - Sisters of Mercy<br/>HUSHH - AViVA<br/>Victorious - Panic! at the Disco<br/>Shake it Out - Florence and the Machine<br/>Savage - Bahari<br/>you should see me in a crown - Billie Eilish<br/>Hatchet - Archive<br/>Six Shooter - Coyote Kisses<br/>Bruises &amp; Bitemarks - Good With Grenades<br/>BLAME IT ON THE KIDS - AViVA<br/>Habits of My Heart - Jaymes Young<br/>I Want To - Rosenfeld<br/>Where Do You Go To (My Lovely) - Peter Sarstedt<br/>Broken - Isak Danielson<br/>Ava Adore - Smashing Pumpkins<br/>Awful - Hole<br/>Trigger Happy Jack - Poe<br/>Betcha - New Model Army<br/>I Don't Want to Grow Up - The Ramones<br/>Do You Remember Rock 'n' Roll Radio? - The Ramones<br/>I Want You - Savage Garden<br/>The King is Half-Undressed - Jellyfish<br/>Little Wonder - David Bowie<br/>Lucky - Bif Naked<br/>Stay Together - Suede<br/>I Like It Rough - Lady Gaga<br/>You Are The Master - Bif Naked<br/>Counting Stars - OneRepublic<br/>Don't Mess With Me - Brody Dalle<br/>Gave You Everything - The Interrupters<br/>S.E.X. - Madonna<br/>Hard To Forget Ya - Britney Spears<br/>Hell Broke Luce - Tom Waits<br/>Hello Lover - Totsy<br/>Invisible Chains - Lauren Jauregui<br/>Paint it Black - Hidden Citizens<br/>Sex Bomb - Spinnerette<br/>Sorry I'm Not Sorry - Tessa Violet<br/>Very Cruel - Poliça<br/>Wrecking Ball - Jasmine Thompson<br/>Burn Baby - L7<br/>Holding Pattern - L7<br/>Play with Fire - Sam Tinnesz, Yacht Money<br/>Battlefield - Jordin Sparks<br/>Toxic - Sofia Karlberg<br/>Tigerman - Goldfrapp<br/>Ocean (feat. Dave Gahan) - Goldfrapp<br/>I'll Sleep When I'm Dead - Set It Off<br/>Evil in the Night - Adam Lambert<br/>Go to War - Nothing More<br/>bad guy - Billie Eilish<br/>Welcome Home (Sanitarium) - Metallica<br/>Super Psycho Love - Simon Curtis<br/>Teeth - 5 Seconds of Summer<br/>Don't Mess With Me - temposhark<br/>Killer Queen - 5 Seconds of Summer<br/>Killer - The Ready Set<br/>Parties for Prostitutes - Brody Dalle<br/>Castle - Halsey<br/>This is Love - Air Traffic Controller<br/>Stay the Night - Zedd, Hayley Williams<br/>Wolves - Selena Gomez, Marshmello<br/>Flesh - Simon Curtis<br/>No Friend of Mine - Unloved<br/>Bones - 8 Graves<br/>Silence - Marshmello, Khalid<br/>Again - Archive<br/>Locomotive - Guns 'n' Roses<br/>The Fallen - Franz Ferdinand<br/>Cold Love - Rainbow Kitten Surprise<br/>Victim of Changes - Judas Priest<br/>Eye of the Tiger - Survivor<br/>Used to the Darkness - Des Rocs<br/>Toxic - A Static Lullaby</p></blockquote></div></div>
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